Power: Samara
by J-Horror Girl
Summary: Cross-over with The Ring. The SVU rescues a strange little girl. "That's the place where I'm going to die..It takes a long time. I scream and cry and I try to climb up till all my fingernails come out..Seven days. That's how long it takes for me to die."
1. The Complaint

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Law and Order or from any version of The Ring/Ringu. Nor am I making any money from this.

FYI: This is a cross over with The Ring. A pre-dead Samara Morgan comes within the purview of the SVU. Overthemoon2139 has a crossover with The Ring called Well Girl, but she's okay with there being another one. Thanks, OTM! I have a non-crossover Ring story, but I'm stuck on it right now and this one will cover much of the same territory.

* * *

Detective John Munch noticed her on his way back from the break room; a youngish woman with a pale, unhappy face and the violet smears of fatigue under her eyes. Long experience told him she was on the verge. The SVU's squad room was full of busy, hardworking people. Without meaning to, it sent the message that they had no time or attention for any more complaints right now. In another moment she might leave as silently and invisibly as she came, and judging by the tight lines of pain and stress marring the smoothness of her brow and pulling at her mouth, she needed help like a heatstroke victim needed ice.

"Whatever it is," he said, keeping his voice pitched low and private, for her alone, "we're here to listen and help. Don't think about not wanting to bother us. We live to be bothered. That's why God put us here on this Earth: specifically for the purpose of being bothered. I'm Detective Munch, by the way. Special Victims Unit."

She shook her head, raising her eyes to his. "It's not that. I know I'm doing the right thing—the only _**possible**_ thing, under the circumstances. But it's probably going to cost me my career and my future. Just like at a funeral, I needed a moment to say goodbye, and now I've said it. I'm ready." She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

"Perhaps this would be easier in private," he suggested.

"Yes," she admitted. "It probably would."

"This way," he said, indicating an empty interview room. "Mind if my partner joins us?"

"No."

He caught Fin's eye. Fin was on the phone, but he nodded, holding up an index finger to say he would be a moment. Munch nodded back, and continued. There was something familiar about this woman, and as he showed her to a seat, he realized what it was: her hair, warm caramel with hints of butterscotch and chocolate, was the same color as Sara Logan's.

Victim of a double rape, her case had fallen to him, and he had pursued it intensely not so much because she was beautiful but because she was _good_, a newscaster who promoted charities and causes, giving back to the world. He had been more than half in love with Sara Logan.

Four times married and divorced, John Munch knew he had problems relating to women. His four ex-wives had, as a department head-shrinker pointed out, all been beautiful (he was only human), spoiled, and intellectually his inferior. Until he met Sara, he hadn't understood why he repeatedly fell for women most men would ward off with religious symbols, but she illuminated everything. He had chosen women who needed to be cared for and protected, because he needed to care for and protect—no sooner had he retired from twenty years with the Baltimore PD than he signed up for the Manhattan SVU, which was proof enough right there.

And he had chosen women who were less intelligent than he because as much as inevitably losing their love hurt, he could offer himself the consolation that they had never really understood him. To be understood and rejected all the same would be a mortal wound.

With one statement, Sara showed him she saw through him—saw through his sarcasm and anger for the defenses they were. "_You know your voice changes just the tiniest bit when you're spinning? I __**know**__ you_." Then _she_ asked _him_ out to dinner. Reeling a little internally with shock, self-realization, and hope, he accepted.

They never had that dinner. Within hours she was dead, slain by a stalker who could not forgive her for having been raped, who saw her as soiled, spoiled, contaminated. The memory of Sara still hurt.

Fortunately this woman did not otherwise resemble Sara. Her eyes were blue, where Sara's had been brown, and her face, while a nice enough face, lacked Sara's classic beauty.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Munch offered, to give Fin a moment more to join them.

"No. No, thank you."

He sat down opposite her. "May I ask your name?" Fin entered as he said it.

"Doctor Judith Weiss."

"Doctor Weiss. Pleased to meet ya. I'm Detective Tutuola." Fin introduced himself, taking up a pose against the wall. "How can we help you?"

"I'm working up to it." Her mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Start where ever you feel comfortable." Munch advised.

"Let me ask the two of you a question." She sat forward. "If someone were to wake you up in the middle of the night and ask you who you were, how would you reply?"

Munch turned to look at his partner behind him. "Detective John Munch, I guess."

"Provided I didn't kick his teeth in, I'd say I was Detective Tutuola."

She nodded. "I thought so. Some professions aren't just what you do; it's who you are. If someone woke me up, I'd say I was Doctor Judith Weiss. I'm in my third year of residency at Eola Psychiatric Hospital."

"Never heard of it." Tutuola shook his head.

"Me neither." Munch replied.

"It's a small private hospital. Most patients are there short-term, dealing with depression, suicidal tendencies, stress. Also alcoholism and addiction. For the most part, they're well off but not very wealthy. No celebrities, no gimmicks. The long term cases are schizophrenics and manic-depressives from families who want them to be more comfortable than they would be in a state-run facility. At Eola they benefit from more individual attention than—Listen to me, I sound like the brochure." She smiled wryly.

"It is a good hospital. A good place to work, well-run. At least it was. A bit old-fashioned in its approach, maybe, but—."

"Old-fashioned? How?" Munch interrupted.

"The head physician, Dr. Graham Scott, still believes in the value of electroshock therapy, among other things." she replied. "That's—Eola is an adult hospital. Most of the patients are in their fifties or older. They've admitted a few in their late teens, now and then. No children. Not until three months ago." She took a folder from her shoulder bag, and removed a photograph, handing it to Munch.

It was a grainy print-out showing a small figure strapped into a chair and wired almost as if for an electrocution. Long dark hair obscured most of the face and shrouded the shoulders. "Her name is Samara Morgan. She's seven years old. She's being drugged and abused, and if no one intervenes…

"If you can't help her, in less than forty-eight hours, she's going to be unnecessarily and wrongly lobotomized."

"By whom?" Munch asked.

"Doctor Graham Scott, the head of Eola Psychiatric Hospital. And yes, he has her father's consent."

"Her father's? Where is her mother in all this?"

"Room 208."

"You mean she's in the same hospital?" Tutuola abandoned his place against the wall to lean over the table, the better to see the picture.

"Yes."

"So both this mom and this little girl are supposed to be crazy?"

"Normally I'd argue with you about the use of the word 'crazy'," Doctor Weiss said wearily, "but I don't have the energy. Anna Morgan is suffering from severe clinical depression, suicidal ideation, hallucinations, and has admitted to having a desire to harm or kill her daughter."

"Reason enough to check into a mental institution," agreed Munch.

"I get that," Tutuolla nodded. "but why's the little girl there?"

"She's at that hospital because Anna couldn't bear to be separated from her," the doctor explained, "and she's hospitalized because she can't sleep, she's withdrawn, moody, and insensitive to pain."

"Do you have proof of any of this?" Munch asked.

Judith Weiss reached into her bag and took out a thick folder. "While I'm still just a resident, I have eighty hour work weeks. I don't have a family, so I don't mind taking weekend shifts as much. I ran Samara's file through the copy machine during the night shift. The last item in it is the order for the lobotomy. I also have this—."

She pulled out a videotape, "—and this." She took out her cell phone and pushed a few keys. Its screen lit up with a photograph of Samara holding up her sleeve to show massive purple bruises. In this picture, her hair was brushed back to show a haunted, gaunt little face with a defiant chin. "These happened yesterday afternoon. An orderly knelt on her to hold her down for her medications. I took the pictures this morning. There are also these." Another key, another photo. Samara held up her blouse to show more bruises on her chest and abdomen. "I think she may have a cracked rib."

"Has anyone seen her—Stupid question. You're a doctor, she's in a hospital. If it was okay, you wouldn't be here." Munch grimaced. "What the hell is going on there?"

"That's where it gets weird." Dr. Weiss replied. "And I don't use the word 'weird' lightly."

"Can ya hang on for a moment?" Fin asked. "Be right back." He crossed the squad room and rapped on Cragen's door. "Captain? We got one that's gonna hit the fan before it's done. Huang and Cabot outta be here, too."


	2. The Evidence

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Law and Order or from any version of The Ring/Ringu. Nor am I making any money from this.

FYI: This is a cross over with The Ring. A pre-dead Samara Morgan comes within the purview of the SVU. Overthemoon2139 has a crossover with The Ring called Well Girl, but she's okay with there being another one. Thanks, OTM! I have a non-crossover Ring story, but I'm stuck on it right now and this one will cover much of the same territory. Details about Samara Morgan are taken from both the movie and the website, although I fill out the picture as I go along.

* * *

"Captain?" Detective Tutola interrupted his superior as the older man was about to enter his office. "We got a Doctor Judith Weiss, a rookie head-shrinker, in Interview Room Two with a story about a kid in a mental hospital, name of Samara Morgan, who's being abused by her physician and staff."

"Hmm. Does she seem legit?"

"Yeah. She's got pictures of the kid on her cellphone. The girl's bruised up bad. The doc says she took them this morning."

"I'll call Cabot. We'll need an order to remove."

"That's not all. She says the kid's slated for an unnecessary lobotomy in two days and wants us to stop it."

"And I thought this was going to be a quiet day. Well, if we remove the girl, the operation will have to be postponed, and we can get Huang to examine her. Anything else?"

"Uh-huh. According to Dr. Weiss, it only gets weirder from there. The mother is a patient in the same hospital. Thing is, the doc brought along a papertrail like ya wouldn't believe. Medical records going back to the cradle and multimedia in the form of video."

"What? She's brought in medical records?" Cregan spun on his heel. "Have you had a look at them yet?"

"No..."

* * *

Meanwhile:

Judith Weiss glanced at the door. "Should I wait for him to come back before I go on?"

"He'll catch up soon enough," Detective Munch assured her. "Weird how?"

She took in his face with a quick glance. Not young. Hair as much silver as black. Acne scars, deep pock marks. _He was probably called 'Pizza Face' when he was a teen_. A face more interesting than handsome. Sympathetic, yes, but those dark eyes were shrewd. Not a man to be taken in by lies. _Don't lie to him, then. Give a very careful version of the truth_.

"Anna Morgan has a persecution complex centered on her daughter. She believes Samara is attacking her with some kind of psychic power, and that's why she's hallucinating. Anna's delusion has spread to most of the staff. I don't say that Dr. Scott believes it, but he helped it along. The nursing staff, housekeeping, some of the technicians-they're going around in fear of a seven-year-old." _There. Not a single lie_.

"What's going on here?" A balding man with an air of harassed authority entered the room, followed by Detective Tutuola.

"Dr. Weiss, the bull in this particular china shop is Captain Cregan. Captain, Doctor Judith Weiss--."

"It would be easier to explain if I showed you this." She picked up the interview tape.

"What is that? What are those?" The Captain pointed to the file it had taken her so long to copy.

"It's an interview between Dr. Scott and Samara Morgan. It's the only hard evidence I have of the--the mass hysteria that's pervading the hospital. This is a copy of Samara's medical file."

"Put them away! They're not here legally. That's a violation of confidentiality, and it seriously compromises any investigation we might make into this case." the captain snapped.

"But it's evidence--."

"Evidence obtained illegally. Munch, don't touch it. Don't even breathe on it."

"I wasn't going to!" John Munch spread his hands as if to push it away.

"I'm sorry." It had taken a great deal for her to get up the strength to go there, and now her hands shook as she gathered the pages back together. "But if you knew what I know--."

"You probably meant well, Doctor--Weiss, is it? But we have procedures we have to follow. Detective Tutuola says you took photos of Samara showing evidence of abuse this morning. Is that right?"

"Yes." Dr. Weiss replied. She held up the phone for the Captain.

"Camera phones. One of the best inventions of the twenty-first century. I love them." commented Munch. "Big Brother may be watching us, but with a camera phone, we can watch right back. Camera phones revealed the abuses at Abu Gharib and they're going to get our foot in Eola Psychiatric's door."

"Someday somebody's gonna stand you onna box with a bag over your head and electrodes on your hands, and it might even be me." predicted Fin.

"That will be enough out of you two. Do you have any other evidence that isn't in her files or otherwise bound by confidentiality?"

"I-no."

"We have to do this one step at a time. I'm going to call our Assistant District Attorney, Alexandra Cabot. Munch, Fin--you take down everything about this incident-and this incident only."

Judith flinched as the door closed behind the captain. "I am sorry. I thought: the more evidence, the better."

"There's no such thing as too much evidence." Tutuola told her. "But we gotta start with what you saw and what you know about those bruises."

"All right. Yesterday afternoon, a nurse and an orderly, Mariposa Gonzales and Gordon Clay went into Samara's room to administer her meds. I was down the hall talking to Doctor Scott. He's the head psychiatrist at Eola. While restraining Samara, Clay knelt on her left arm and pushed his other knee into her chest, causing these bruises."

Munch sat up and started taking notes. "Did you see this from where you were?"

"Partially. I saw Mariposa and Clay kneeling, but I didn't see Samara. Their bodies were in the way."

"Do you know that she didn't have those bruises beforehand? Could she have gotten them some other way? Playing, maybe?"

"I know she didn't have them at seven that morning, because I helped her dress after her shower. She doesn't get to go outside and play. I saw them the next morning. I asked her how they happened, and she told me it was Clay. Then I took the photos."

"Good..." Munch noted.

"How big is this 'Clay' fella?" Fin asked. "How come he had to kneel on a seven year old girl to get her meds into her?"

"About your size." Judith turned to him. "To my knowledge, he has never had any training in how to restrain an agitated child safely."

"Have you?" Munch asked.

"Yes. I've offered to demonstrate-but I have very little influence at Eola. I-I'm not the world's most assertive person." She looked at her hands. _Listen to me. I'm making myself sound like a timid little flower._ "And the atmosphere where Samara is concerned is, as I said, strange."

"You were about to explain that." Munch said. "The mother's delusions spread to the staff, and now they're convinced she has psychic powers."

"I wish I hadn't mentioned that." Judith frowned. "It's difficult to explain it without the videotape, and I can't show it to you. You've read about the Salem witch trials?"

"I just know that play The Crucible from high school." Fin claimed.

"I have." said Munch. "A few teenage girls say they were bewitched-probably to get themselves out of being punished, if I know anything about teens-not realizing the excuse is worse than the offense. Next thing you know, the whole community is seeing demons and familiars in every shadow, and four-year-olds are accused of witchcraft and sent to prison. Mass hysteria. You think something like that is happening here?"

"Yes." Judith lied. "Once some staff members said they saw hallucinations, it escalated. Things would go wrong in Samara's vicinity, and they'd blame it on her. I remember someone was scalded by hot coffee while Samara was looking at her. I wouldn't have thought adults living in today's world would-."

"I'll believe anything," Munch nodded. "And when people are nervous, they're even more prone to be clumsy. It's a vicious cycle. Now we do need to take down some information about you..."

* * *

"What do you think?" Captain Cragen asked the tall cool blonde by his side as they observed the interview through the two-way mirror glass.

"Get me printouts of those photos showing the bruises and I'll have an order of removal for you this afternoon." Alex Cabot promised. "Get Samara Morgan over to Children's Hospital immediately to be checked out. For everything, and I mean everything. X-rays, blood tests, urine samples, evidence of sexual trauma, the works. MRI, CAT scans and all."

"Why Children's Hospital?"

"Because they have a psychiatric ward. That's where she'll be going until further notice. I'm not going to have anyone claim her mental condition wasn't taken into consideration. If she's a danger to herself or others, they'll know how to handle it without leaving bruises.

"Eighty hour work weeks must play hell on your marriage," they heard Munch probe. "They did on mine."

"All four of them," snorted Fin.

"Is he flirting with her?" Alex asked incredulously.

"I'm divorced." Judith Weiss replied. "We met in college. He was taking Medieval and Renaissance Studies. The only problem was, he took his studies a little too far, and now he's a professional re-enactor. Travels all around the country chasing Renaissance Faires."

"Not only that, but she's flirting back." Cragen rapped on the glass. "What do you say we do a quick background check on the doctor, make sure she is who she says she is?"

"Do it." The ADA was already on her way to the judge. "Make sure Huang's on stand-by to do a psych evaluation on the girl-and send Benson as back-up when Munch goes to Eola."


	3. The Hospital

Cregan looked up as Olivia and Elliot returned from lunch. "Good," he greeted them. "You're needed to help Munch and Fin on a new case. You'll be removing Samara Morgan, age seven, from Eola Psychiatric Hospital, and you, Benson, will be escorting her over to Children's Hospital. Munch will fill you in on the rest. This one's his."

Munch and Fin were at the center of a small knot of uniforms, handing around pieces of paper. Dr. Huang stood to one side, where he was talking with an attractive thirty-something woman. "Care to join us?" Munch called.

"All right," Olivia said, accepting the papers as they reached her. Two photographs of the same child, long black hair sleeked back from a sad/angry, gaunt little face, displaying large purpleish bruises spreading over her fragile arm and chest, like messy smears of blueberry pie on a porcelain plate.

"That is Samara Morgan, and that is what is being done to her." Munch informed them. "Either the judge was feeling generous or our ADA was unusually eloquent, for not only do we have an order of removal, we also have three arrest warrants, two aggravated assault charges for Mariposa Ana-Tina Gonzales and Gordon Michael Clay, the nurse and orderly who are directly responsible for the injuries you see there, but also for the head psychiatrist of Eola, Doctor Graham Henry Scott, for failure to report evidence of child abuse, obstruction of justice, reckless endangerment, and depraved indifference.

"The only one from whom I anticipate any trouble is Clay— he's employed specifically for his ability to physically restrain agitated and violent patients, and has two prior arrests for aggravated assault. The hospital's over on West 35th Street. There's front and back entrances. Stabler, I want you in charge of securing the back while Fin and I go in from the front. Benson, you'll have paramedics and a stretcher with you; Samara may have broken ribs or other internal injuries. This poor kid's been through enough; we want to make sure she doesn't even stub a toe between Eola and Children's Hospital."

The woman standing beside Huang now spoke up. "Detective Munch?"

"Yes?"

"Samara trusts me. If I'm there with Detective Benson, she'll be calm and cooperative."

"It's all right." Olivia smiled reassuringly. "I have a great deal of experience working with abused children—?"

"Doctor Weiss. Judith Weiss." The woman supplied. "I'm not questioning your abilities, but you'll have the paramedics with you—and they'll have a stretcher with straps. It's _them_ she won't trust. I'm worried about what will happen at Children's, too."

"You realize that if you go in, there's no way you'll be able to conceal your involvement." Munch warned her.

"I already know I've burned my bridges," she replied. "I might as well get it over with."

Huang put in, "I'm in favor of Doctor Weiss accompanying Samara. Whatever her underlying condition, this is a severely traumatized little girl."

"All right. Dr. Weiss, you'll ride with Benson and Stabler. Anything else? Oh. Yeah. Samara's mother is also a patient at Eola, so look out for her. I doubt she'll take this well. Let's go."

As Fin took his customary position behind the driver's seat, he looked over at his partner. "I just want you to know that was disgusting."

"What was?" Munch adjusted his seat belt. " I thought I came across as confident, authoritative and well-informed."

"I mean you hitting on the shrink. 'Isn't that hard on your marriage?' Four divorces and you ain't learned a thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about. She was upset; I was just trying to put her at ease."

"Yeah, right. Why don'tcha go down to Times Square and put it on one of those computerized billboards. Be a bit more subtle about it."

In the other car, the conversation had a more serious tone.

Elliot used the rearview mirror to glance at the doctor in the back seat. "I can tell you're worried about the consequences." he offered. "I won't lie to you. You might regret having come forward. But if you hadn't, and something happened to Samara, something worse—if you stood by and did nothing—you'd always regret it. Believe me. This way, you'll sleep better at night."

"Thank you." replied Doctor Weiss. "I hope so."

"Pardon my asking," Olivia took up the thread, "but what's wrong with Samara? Why was she in a mental institution in the first place?"

"I was already warned by your captain not to share too much." Doctor Weiss stirred. "The last thing I want to do is jeopardize the investigation…I can say that Doctor Scott is her primary physician. He has more than thirty years experience in treating the mentally ill, and he hasn't come up with a definite answer."

* * *

"The first priority here is to get the kid out safely." Munch advised his team at the front of the building. "Her mother is somewhere in the building. If she gets wind of what we're doing, she's likely to be hysterical, even violent. _Don't_ hurt her. Second is making the arrests If we can do that as we go along, so much the better. Ready, Stabler?" He spoke into his radio, and got an affirmative reply. "All right, let's go."

He mounted the steps, Fin at his back, Benson and Doctor Weiss trailing behind, two uniforms and a pair of paramedics following them. Eola was a low-security facility; all its patients were there voluntarily, and the lobby was its public face, made attractive with fresh flowers, polished marble and hardwoods. A receptionist looked up from behind her desk as he approached. "Can I help you?" she inquired.

"Police," he informed her, showing her his badge. "Special Victims Unit." Fin and Benson followed suit. "I have an order of removal for one of your patients. Samara Morgan, age seven. I'm told she's in room 506."

"You'll have to speak to Doctor Scott—Doctor Weiss? What are you doing—are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Doctor Weiss is fine. I'd appreciate it if you could page Doctor Scott, however."

"Okay," She punched buttons on her phone, and was rewarded by a high beeping somewhere nearby.

"What is it, Lorna?" A man poked his head out of the lobby men's room. He was drying his hands on a paper towel.

"Doctor Scott?" John Munch asked, briskly moving toward him.

"Yes. And you are?" An unattractive specimen in late middle age, Doctor Scott was a man who had stuck with the styles of his youth, when it was fashionable for psychiatrists to wear beards and moustaches with a dark turtleneck and a corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches.

"NYPD. Detective John Munch, Special Victims Unit. I have an order of removal here for Samara Morgan." He held up a paper.

"That's not an order of removal. That's an arrest warrant!"

"Why, so it is. And it has your name on it. You are charged with failure to report evidence of child abuse, obstruction of justice, reckless endangerment, and depraved indifference. That's only because if I charged you with being an egotistical idiot with the diagnosis skills of stale bread and fashion sense that froze in 1958, I'd have to arrest half the head-shrinkers in Manhattan. Face to the wall, hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford—."

"You can't do this!" protested the doctor.

"Why, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, do people always say that?" Munch wondered as he spun the handcuffed man around into the custody of the uniforms behind him.

"Wishful thinking?" opined Fin.

"Doctor Weiss? Is this your doing?" Scott spluttered when he saw his subordinate among the invaders.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Scott. I had to stop it."

"Your position with this hospital is terminated." He spat out.

"Are you firing her because she reported an incident of child abuse? You witnessed it, people. Doctor Weiss, I normally never say this to people, but you should call your lawyer. That little statement of his is going to make you very rich. Finish reading him his rights and put him in a car. Fin, let's go find some more people to arrest. Benson, we've killed the dragon. Go rescue the princess." He gave Doctor Weiss his best smile as she pointed the way to the elevators.

"Showoff." Benson whispered as she went past.

"Can you tell me where we can find Mariposa Gonzales and Gordon Clay?" Fin asked the receptionist.

* * *

Doctor Weiss stayed silent until they passed the second floor. "Don't expect a cute, sweet little girl," she said, awkwardly.

The paramedics glanced at each other.

Olivia said what she thought. "That's an odd thing to say. Of course abused kids aren't going to be at their best."

"I mean—if she shows any emotional response at all, it'll be negative. She's kept heavily sedated all the time. Right now she's on a mixture of Haldol, thorazine, Prozac, lithium, and Epitol—and dosages so high I would hesitate to prescribe them for a two hundred pound man, let alone a seven year old who weighs less than eighty pounds." Doctor Weiss looked at Olivia steadily as she said it.

"Why?" Olivia asked.

"That's difficult to explain. She'll be conscious—she's almost always conscious. But it'll be like talking to someone wearing a mask. You won't be able to read her. Most people find Samara disturbing."

"I'll tell you right now, I'm disturbed _for_ her. I won't be disturbed _by_ her." Olivia promised.

"Wait and see." Doctor Weiss said. The elevator doors opened. "That's her room down there." She pointed to the end of the corridor.

"Jude!" A door along the passage opened. "Thank God! I need help in here!" A young man with scratch-marks down one cheek was struggling with a naked, flabby man. "Mr. Lippman is having an episode!"

Dr. Weiss cast an agonized look toward Olivia. "I—Tell her I'll be there in a moment. She calls me Doctor Jude. Here." She tossed a key chain to the detective.

Olivia caught it out of the air. "We'll be fine."

There was something different about the door to room 506, which was Samara's. None of the other doors had locks. 506 had not only a lock, but two sliding bolts. Not the flimsy ones found on an old restroom stall, either, but heavy, case hardened steel.

What child needed to be heavily sedated all the time? What seven year old girl needed to be locked in with bolts they might use down in the Cage?


	4. The Victim

Gordon Michael Clay was just minding his own business, and what his business was, was skimming. One perk of working at Eola was the easy access to controlled substances, namely, the medications. Hey, the big bottles had 500 pills each, so who would notice three pills here, five there, ten there? Nobody, at least not yet.

Once he sold them, it meant another two to four hundred bucks a week to play with, which wasn't big-league, but didn't suck. And he could always self-medicate, which he really, really needed to do, these days, ever since _that_ arrived. The _thing_ up on the fifth floor. Okay, at first he sorta felt sorry for a kid so little in there with all the wack jobs, but then…

First it was sounds. Then headaches. Then he started seeing things out of the corner of his eye, rustling shapes like a spiral of fallen leaves. Or rats swarming. Maybe they were bugs. And it wasn't just his imagination, because other people saw them, too. Sometimes he looked down at his lunch and saw a plate of maggots. Or he'd be talking to one of the pretty young nurses, and her face would become a mass of cracked scabs leaking pus all over the place.

Sometimes he saw _it_, in places where _it_ couldn't possibly be, because _it_ was locked in upstairs. In the employee locker room. In the stairwell. Just behind his shoulder. Watching him.

He wouldn't think of _it_ as her. He tried not to even think her name, because if you thought about her, _it_, too long, you got the feeling_ it_ was looking back at you... from inside your head. When _it_ was medicated enough,_ it_ was quiet and didn't bother anybody, but_ it_ quickly built up a resistance to whatever drug cocktail Scott was trying on _it_ that week, and Clay was afraid one day, the medicine wouldn't work at all.

In fact, right now, he had a feeling like he was being watched. He wasn't going to turn around this time. Shaking out a handful of Ambien, he consulted the charts, divvied up the necessary number of pills among the medicine cups, and put the rest in a baggie to take home.

"Well, this is real interesting." drawled a man's voice behind him.

Clay whirled. There _was_ someone behind him, a light-skinned black man with a look like he smelled something bad, and the something he smelled was Gordon Michael Clay.

"NYPD." The man held up a badge. "Detective Tutuola. Your name Clay?"

"Ya—yeah."

"Hands where I can see them, okay? You are under arrest for—." Clay threw the chart at the cop's head and charged him. Get past the cop, cut through the occupational therapy classroom, out the back door, and he'd be free. Maybe the cop would have cop moves and street moves, but Clay had _psycho_ moves, which trumped them every time.

Problem was, the cop had psycho moves too, and he wouldn't go down, and now Clay was stuck wrestling with him in the narrow corridor, and the cop was slamming him into the wall, hard. "You wanna add resisting arrest and assaulting a cop to your rap sheet, that's fine with me, you dirty little piece of—."

The fire extinguisher! Wrenching it loose, Clay swung wildly, felt it hit something, and the cop let go.

He ran for it. The back door, that was it. Just get out, and worry about the rest from there.

But there were cops waiting there, too, with their guns out. The plainclothes guy in the lead yelled "Freeze!" just like on TV, but Clay had too much momentum going to stop neatly. He fell over his own feet and skinned his face on the concrete before coming to rest right on the cop's shoes.

This cop was a good looking white guy. "You Gordon Clay?" he asked.

Clay nodded. "What you coming after me for? I didn't do anything." he mumbled while one of the uniforms cuffed him, face down, right where he was.

"Yeah, right." That was the black cop again. "Check out this guy's pockets. He's a walking pharmacy. Caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Thought you clocked me one?" he taunted Clay as the uniforms hauled him up. "You hit the wall, asshole. I _let_ you run."

"Why'd you do that?" asked the white cop.

"Hey, Stabler. Didn't want you falling asleep out here. I'm gonna go find Munch. Ya never know; that Latina nurse might have more fight in her than this guy."

"Gordon Michael Clay, you are now under arrest—."

"What am I supposed to have done?" Clay persisted.

"Just a sec, okay? Let me finish." The white cop ran through the whole thing, and Clay had to say that yes, he understood his rights, and no, he didn't want an attorney right then, he wanted to know what they thought he did.

"You hurt a little girl." the cop told him, finally, with a look on his face like he took it personally.

"No, I didn't!" Clay protested. "I never did anything like that!" And he believed it.

"Really?" the cop asked, dripping sarcasm. "Let me refresh your memory. Samara Morgan, seven years old. Right in that building where you work. Room 506."

"That? That isn't a little girl."

"I saw pictures, Gordon. She looked like a little girl to me, and I've got three, so I'm kind of an expert."

"That's not a little girl."

"Are you saying that it's a midget—or a long haired little boy?"

"No."

"Then what is it, Gordon?"

Gordon thought about the past three months, and everything that he had seen and heard since _it_ came to Eola. "Nothing human," he finally answered.

* * *

A slight high-pitched whine began in Olivia's head the moment she touched the door, like the drone of a mosquito some July midnight. It intensified as she drew the bolts and unlocked it, and when she opened the door, she had to steady herself against a sudden attack of dizziness. Nothing bad, just disconcerting.

The room was empty—until she looked to the left of the door. There was the only piece of furniture, a twin bed, flush against the wall, and bolted down. On the bed there was a child, and she was staring at Olivia. The bed was white, the sheets were white, the walls were white, and the child's skin nearly as colorless as all the rest. Her hair was black, and it hid most of her face. She stared through the strands, as still as a pen-and-ink drawing from some collection of gothic horror.

For a moment, Olivia was afraid. Irrationally afraid, because this was an abused little girl, not some malevolent monster shedding waves of cold anger. Most people found Samara disturbing, Doctor Weiss had said. _Be disturbed __**for**__ her. Not __**by**__ her_, Olivia told herself.

"Samara?" the detective asked, forcing a smile to her lips. The paramedics stirred at the door; Olivia stopped them with a gesture.

The girl moved. Her head flopped from one shoulder to the other, and a delicate thread of drool seeped from the corner of her mouth. She brought up a hand, used it, flipper-like, to wipe the saliva away. "—yes." She seemed to have difficulty getting the word out.

_**Very**__ heavily medicated_, Olivia thought as she went over to the bed and sat down. "What beautiful hair you have," (_what big teeth you have, grandma!)_ she said, reaching out to move some of the heavy mass aside. The whine in her head spiked into a headache.

Samara's pupils, shrunk to pinpricks, swam in irises the color of ice water, palest crystalline blue. "Who are you?" she asked Olivia.

"My name is Olivia. I'm a friend of Doctor Jude's." She infused her voice with all the warmth she could. That stare was unnerving; it seemed to penetrate flesh and bone.

"Doctor Jude is _my_ friend." There was a hint of playground possessiveness in the child's voice.

"Yes, she is, and she cares about you very much. But you're allowed to have more than one friend, and I hope you'll let me be your friend, too." How her head pounded! She had to press the heel of her hand into her forehead, hard, to give herself relief.

Samara considered for a moment. "Are you on my side?" she asked Olivia.

"Yes, sweetie, I am. I am on your side. I will _always_ be on your side."

The headache broke. Olivia blinked. _That was weird_. Now she just seemed like the saddest, most serious little girl the detective had ever encountered. "Samara, honey, do you know why I'm here?"

"Doctor Jude said she was going to take me someplace safe once she got help."

"Yes, that's right. I'm here to help. First, though, can I see your arm, where you got bruised?"

Samara freed her arms from the blanket and pushed one sleeve up to the shoulder. The bruises, being older now, were much more colorful.

There was more, however. From elbow to wrist the tender, sensative underarm was marred by long pink and white scars, old ones. By this time, Olivia recognized what barbed wire did to flesh.

"Honey, how did you get these?"

"It was an accident. I shouldn't have been running so near the fence."

"It looks like it must have hurt a lot."

"No. It didn't hurt. It never hurts." Samara met Olivia's eyes again. "I _never_ cry."

"Oh. I see. Samara, do you have other scars?" _This is what Doctor Weiss couldn't talk about. This is what Doctor Scott couldn't diagnose_.

"Yes."

"Then you must get hurt a lot. Samara, is someone hurting you? Not just here in the hospital, I mean. Before."

"I _love_ my mommy." Samara replied, with heartbreaking truth and longing.

_She is being abused. She is being abused by her mother_. "How long have you been getting hurt, Samara? How far back can you remember?"

"I'm seven years old." was Samara's response. To some, that might not have seemed like an answer, but Olivia knew better.

_Oh, God_.


	5. The Removal

John Munch showed his badge to the woman at the third floor nurses' station. "Police." he identified himself. "I'm looking for Mariposa Gonzales."

The nurse looked at the badge, then up at his face. She had improbably apricot hair and eyeliner caked into the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. "Try the break room. I saw her go in there, and she hasn't come out yet."

"Thanks," he nodded, and turned.

She wasn't done yet. "I heard you're here to take the little freak away. Is that right?"

"What did you just say?"

"The Morgan girl. You're taking her someplace else. Out of here, anyway. At least that's what Lorna told me on the phone."

"Yes. Our purpose in coming here today is to remove Samara Morgan from a place where orderlies kneel on her to force medicine into her, and where it's obvious only one person on the entire staff gives a rat's ass! You want to talk to me about freaks? Does every person who works here get their humanity surgically removed and replaced by a lump of dry ice? Is this the Invasion of the Bodysnatchers? Are you all pod people except for Doctor Weiss?" He slammed his hand down on the counter.

The nurse recoiled; he continued. "So now, lady, why don't you tell me why you call Samara Morgan a little freak. And it had better be a good explanation."

Her mouth spasmed in anger. "Well, you're taking her out of here, aren't you? Good. If you spend enough time around her, you'll find out."

"I'm looking forward to it. Now where the hell is that break room?"

"Two doors down and on the right." She pointed.

He slammed the door open as he entered. "Police." A dark-haired woman stood by the sink in the room's kitchenette, her back toward him. She didn't react. "Mariposa Gonzales?" Still nothing. Was she deaf? She was boiling water in a little electric kettle; he could see the cord and the steam coming from the spout. He stepped closer.

"Mariposa Gonzales, you are—Shit!" It took him a split second to realize what was going on.

She was steaming her hand.

She had her left hand no more than three inches from the spout, directly in the steam.

"What are you doing?" He swept the kettle from the counter, sent it flying across the room. Only a few drops of water splashed out; it had boiled almost dry. "What were you doing?" he asked again, this time in Spanish.

He looked directly into her face. It was as vacant and blank as a mannequin's. Even corpses had more expression. Seizing her shoulder, he shook her. "What is wrong with you?"

It was like pushing a button. Her eyes bulged, she drew in a great gasp of air, and howled out her agony. The sink was two steps away. He turned the cold on full force, dragged her to it, and stuck her hand in the flow of water. "Il dolore," she cried out. _The pain_.

The palm of her hand was—like marshmallows, all fat white blisters. Her rings dug into the burned skin like twists in a balloon animal. She sagged against the sink, barely able to hold herself up. He had to help support her as she gagged and vomited in reaction to the shock and pain.

"What did you do to her?" The duty nurse, the one with the apricot hair, stood in the doorway. "What did you do?"

"Get ice!" he snapped. "I didn't do anything to her. I walked in here and found her standing there like—like." Words failed him for once. "Where's the freaking ice?"

The kitchenette had an ice dispenser; in trying to fill a pitcher, the duty nurse fumbled it and spilled some on the floor. "You asked me why I called that kid a little freak? This is why. She—."

"What the --?" Fin came in and used a word not appropriate for television broadcast. "Munch, what's goin' on in here?"

"Insanity is contagious!" John spat out. The uniforms crowded in behind. "Look, get her burns seen to. She's still under arrest. I want her down at the station house as soon as she can answer questions coherently."

"That didn't look good, man." Fin observed as they left Mariposa Gonzales in the uniforms' custody. "What the hell happened?"

"Mass hysteria. Please tell me I don't have any puke on me." John visually inspected his attire, then tried the sniff test as the two detectives walked down the hall. "Can you smell anything?"

"No. Now explain."

"I walked in and found her trying to steam the wrinkles out of her left hand. She had to have been doing it for several minutes; she had second degree burns. I yelled at her, and she didn't move. The lights were on, but nobody was home. Not until I shook her. Then she started screaming like an opera star. The duty nurse says Samara Morgan _made_ Ms. Gonzales do it."

"Freaky shit." Fin commented. "You sure don't have a lotta sympathy for her."

"I'm saving it for Samara—although I'll spare some for Doctor Weiss, who's had to work in this. You know, I'm looking forward to the trial. Can't you hear the defense now? 'Your Honor, my clients were only defending themselves from the psychic powers of a seven year old girl.'"

"Hey, that reminds me. We got Clay. Stabler's sittin' on him."

"Good."

"You think mass hysteria can explain why a woman would burn herself like that?" Fin stabbed the down button for the elevator.

"As I said earlier, nothing surprises me any more." The elevator doors opened; there were Benson, Doctor Weiss, the two paramedics, and the stretcher. Sitting up, but secured by a safety belt, was the child from the photographs. "Except maybe this. Is there room for two more?"

"I think so." Benson stepped back.

"Thanks." John looked at the little girl as he entered and the doors closed. "You must be Samara." When he was around kids and animals, Munch's tough façade turned into pure cast iron Jello. He couldn't help it. "That is, I hope this is Samara. All I see is a lot of hair like Rapunzel's. You in there, princess?"

Her head tilted back, and she squinted at him. "I don't like people laughing at me," she said, darkly.

"Honey, I'm not laughing at you. I'm only smiling. See?" He lifted some of her hair up and grinned at her. "I was right. You are a princess. Not Rapunzel, though. More like Snow White."

"I'm not a princess."

"All little girls are princesses. Some big girls, too, for that matter."

"You should know. You keep marryin' them." Fin grimaced.

"I don't like people laughing at me!" Samara sounded genuinely angry.

"Samara," Doctor Weiss stepped in. Samara's protector had seemed wound up to the breaking point in the station house, but with Samara she was a very different woman. Her eyes smiled, and she looked like she'd had a good night's sleep. She looked like she'd had a whole month's worth of good night's sleep. "This is Detective Munch." Doctor Weiss explained. "He was the first person who offered to help you. He likes to tease people, but only because he wants to make them smile too. It's all right."

"He's another person who's on your side." Benson reached out and touched Samara's hand. "You see, there are people who will listen and do everything they can to help."

"That's only because you don't know." She seemed to retreat inside her cocoon of hair.

"Samara," Doctor Weiss began, and then the elevator doors opened on Eola's lobby.

A woman in black stood there. Her dark auburn hair was flawlessly groomed, but her face twitched and trembled, and she shivered. Her eyes were not sane. "No. You can't do this. You can't take her away from me." Her glance flicked from one person to another.

"The mother?" Munch looked at Doctor Weiss, who nodded. "Mrs. Morgan, I have a court order—."

"Mrs. Morgan," Benson cut in, using her stern voice. "This is not a good environment for your daughter. We're moving her to another facility which specializes in caring for children. She will get much better care there, and she will be very well protected."

"She's all I have. She is everything I have in this world! You can't take her, I won't let you—." Samara's mother tried to rush the stretcher, like a great bird of prey swooping on a kill.

Benson blocked her. "Mrs. Morgan, I know you aren't well. I know you haven't been well for a very long time. Right now, you need to concentrate on your own recovery, so you can be a good mother, the mother Samara needs. Let us worry about your daughter. We're not taking her away from you forever. Get Samara to the ambulance." Olivia added to her colleagues.

"I want my daughter!"

"Mommy!" Samara wailed. "Mommy, I love you—." She was cowering as far back as the stretcher would allow.

"You see? You see?" Anna Morgan struggled with Benson. "She needs me!"

"What's going on here?" Stabler arrived.

"We need—."

"Mrs. Morgan," Doctor Weiss's low, intense tones undercut the chaos. "I know what's been going on. Even if Doctor Scott couldn't see it, I can. I know _everything_."

Anna Morgan froze. "What—who are you? NO! I know who you are. I know. I—." At that point, Eola staff intervened. Anna was swiftly subdued and given an injection of sedative.

"I think it's time we took our leave." Munch summed up, and no one disagreed with him.


	6. The Wait

Olivia came out through the double doors to join Huang and Munch in the waiting area at Children's Hospital. "Dr. Jude's staying with Samara through the procedures," she told them. "There wasn't enough room to fit me in there, too. Right now they're doing the X-rays. Do either of you know anything about fire codes?"

"Like what?" Munch asked.

"Samara's room was on the fifth floor. It locked from the outside, so she had no way of getting out. It didn't have any windows, any kind of fire escape or a sprinkler system. If a fire had broken out, she'd have been trapped. I know that in a foster home you can't put a child in a bedroom above the first floor without some provision in case of fire, so I think Eola has to have been in violation of law."

"Sorry, I can't help you there. If you wanted to know any fire safety regulations in regard to owning and operating a bar in Baltimore, I could tell you anything you want to know."

"I'd call it into Cabot." Huang advised.

"I will. Where there's one code violation, there are usually others. Damn. This is a no-cell-phone area. I'll be right back." She consulted a map on the wall and left.

"Eola was once considered the best private mental hospital in New York." Huang chose a seat and lowered himself into it. "And Dr. Scott's treatment methods combining traditional psychoanalysis with medications were, at the time, groundbreaking. He was a pioneer in his field."

"The operative word there is 'was'." Munch pointed out as he sat down. "What happened to change things?"

"The field changed, and Scott didn't keep up with it. With HMOs dominating health care, the former treatment model of weekly psychotherapy has been replaced with the endlessly refillable prescription."

"Yes, but while ordinarily I'd be glad to go on at length about the evils of the modern day health care industry, in this instance I think there must be a more profound reason why Eola went from being the best private loony bin in the city to a place where they torture little girls for fun and profit."

"I can't answer that. I'd have to speak to Scott first. If Detective Benson is correct and there are enough code violations to shut Eola down while they try to bring the building up to code, it will probably never reopen. The existing patients will go elsewhere, and no new ones will apply to be admitted—not after the tale of Samara Morgan's mistreatment gets out. Unfortunately, this puts Dr. Weiss in an impossible position."

"Why?" Benson asked, rejoining them. "She did the right thing."

"She's only a resident," John Munch informed her. "She doesn't have her license to practice medicine, not yet. Residencies last from two to five years, and she said she was in her third. Even if she finds a hospital with an opening who's willing to accept a transfer, once they find out she blew the whistle on Scott, they'll think twice about taking her on."

Huang agreed. "Getting a medical degree doesn't make one a doctor. Internships and residencies provide intensive on-the-job training, not just in practicing medicine, but in being a team player, so to speak. If Eola closes and Scott loses his license, any employer who looks at her will remember she was the one who brought them down, and forget why she did it."

"So she's screwed. That sucks." Olivia said. "She needs someone to go to bat for her, as Cregan would for us."

"She might have a hard time finding that someone." Huang opened a folder and started browsing through it.

* * *

Cregan looked in at Dr. Scott in Interview Room One. The psychiatrist was mad and getting madder. "We won't be able to hold him very long on those charges, Alex," he told the ADA. "His lawyer will be here any moment. By now I know when you have a bigger picture. I've got to tell you, though—this time, I can't tell what that picture is."

"Criminal malpractice. That's the bigger picture."

"Criminal mal—Alex, the last time criminal malpractice applied to medicine was back in the days when abortion was illegal! If malpractice has occurred here, that's a matter for the civil courts. Besides which, it would be up to Samara Morgan's parents to decide whether to sue or not. Are you out of your mind?"

"There's a legal precedent. A dentist upstate administered anesthetic gas to a twelve year old who died in the dental chair. Investigation proved he botched the anesthesia, persistently ignored signs his patient was in distress, even though his assistant did her best to call his attention to it, and then tried to cover up his failings.

"He was tried and convicted of manslaughter. Malpractice suits have become so common they don't mean anything any more. Doctors have insurance to cover any lawsuits. Perhaps facing criminal charges and doing hard time will make them more careful."

Cregan rubbed his forehead. "But a death is one thing. You don't know what's wrong with Samara Morgan, so you don't know what to charge him with. Is there a particular reason you're targeting Dr. Scott for this foray into the unknown?"

"A disproportionate number of his teenage patients have committed suicide."

* * *

"I hate waiting." Munch tossed aside the Parenting magazine he had been skimming through and surveyed the Children's Hospital Diagnostics waiting area. It was child friendly, which meant the colors were bright and cheerful. He gave them points for trying, but it was still a hospital and the scent of antiseptic counteracted the cheer.

"You could help fold clothes." Benson suggested. She plucked something white from a mountain of white beside her and did some kind of origami with it before placing it in a neat stack beside her. Huang occupied an armchair at an angle from the two detectives, looking over some papers with great interest.

"You brought your laundry along?" he asked.

"No. This is all Samara's. We were pressed for time, so I stripped a sheet off the bed threw everything from the closet in it, and carried it out Santa style."

"I was wondering what you were lugging around. I've never folded a child's clothes, though."

"It's just like folding your own, only smaller." She tossed him a wad.

Well, it was something to do. "Okay." He got to work. "Samara. Unusual name. You're not going to find a lot of Samaras in the same homeroom, not like all the Britneys and the Hannahs."

"I guess not." Olivia paired up socks. They worked in silence for a few seconds.

Several garments later, Munch paused. "Does this kid own anything that isn't white? Look at this. It's like Antarctica exploded—or maybe the Ku Klux Klan's having a yard sale."

"I was just wondering that myself." Olivia added another folded piece to the stack. "She's a seven year old girl, so where's all the pink? Or the denim?"

"Or anything that looks like it was made in this century. You'd think her life was one long tea party." he complained.

"Which we know it isn't." Olivia said, picking up another article of clothing. "Not many parents go for such…gender specific clothing. And according to Kathy Stabler, white is a parent's nightmare."

"Samara's mother has an image of her ideal daughter fixed in her mind." Huang added from the depths of his chair. "A very feminine, very traditional image. She wants her child to be a perfect little lady, well-behaved, polite, tidy and clean. Hence the formal, old-fashioned clothing, and Samara's long hair, never mind how impractical or difficult they might be to care for. This fantasy is more important to her."

"But no flesh-and-blood child could live up to that fantasy." Olivia pointed out. "So when Samara fails, Anna punishes her for it."

Huang agreed. "I haven't even spoken to Samara yet, and I can tell that's true."

"And on what do you base your conclusion, Doctor?" Munch mocked gently as he untangled another item. "Olivia, what is this thing? An apron?"

"It's called a pinafore." Benson told him. "Think of Alice in Wonderland."

"Oh, right. So. Dr Huang, what were you about to say?"

"Dr. Weiss handed me a pile of Samara's artwork as they went into Diagnostics. She drew them over the course of her stay at Eola. They're illuminating. Since Dr. Weiss was also foresighted enough to date them, I can track Samara's mental state. The—." Huang cut himself off as a man about the same age as Dr. Weiss emerged from behind the double doors. He wore scrubs and a white lab coat.

"Detectives? I'm Dr. Walker. I have the results on Samara Morgan—some of them, at any rate. Samara's tolerance is wearing thin. Doctor Weiss explained the circumstances under which she came to us. We certainly don't want to traumatize her any further."

"We appreciate that, Dr. Walker." Munch replied. "What can you tell us?"

"To begin with, Samara has three cracked ribs to go with the bruising on her arm and torso, consistent with the injuries as described. Someone knelt on her, and if he did it again, he would have completed the breaks and very likely pierced her lung."

"Gordon Clay doesn't know how lucky he is." Olivia remarked.

"Unfortunately, there's more. The medications Samara was taking. The dosages were far too high, and the combination was dangerous to begin with. Lithium alone is extremely toxic. The highest safe blood concentration of lithium for Samara would be 1.2 millimoles per liter. She has a concentration of 3.7, or over three times as much as any competent physician would prescribe. Haldol and lithium together can easily cause permanent brain damage."

"Is she brain damaged?" Munch asked.

"She didn't seem it when I spoke to her." Olivia added. "Allowing for the effect of the sedatives, she seemed to be of normal intelligence."

"Yes, but you must also have noticed the difficulty Samara has in speaking and moving. That could be due to the lithium overdose, or it could be permanent. We won't know until the drugs have worn off. There is kidney impairment as well. Exactly how bad, we don't know, but dialysis doesn't seem to be indicated at this time. We're going to have her drink a lot of extra fluids over the next several days and keep an eye on her blood toxins. The MRI, CAT, and so forth will have to wait until she's down off the meds, or we'll get false results."

Doctor Walker shook his head and went on, "I don't believe I've ever seen such an egregious case of physician overmedication before. Frankly, anyone who picked up a Physician's Desk Reference or checked an online database could have seen the dangers of that drug combination."

"Great! Yet another reason to hate Dr. Scott. I'm really looking forward to interviewing him when we get back to the precinct." Munch commented. "Do you have any good news for us, Doctor?"

"Well, there are no signs of sexual trauma, and she tested negative for HIV. That's the only good news, though. Dr. Scott had to be deluding himself to have missed the signs of physical and emotional abuse. She has scars, healed fractures, burns, and a story to go with each. She was running too near the barbed wire fence, and cut her arm. A horse kicked her and broke her collarbone. We've heard it all before, and far too often."

"The stories about the fence and the horse might be true," Dr. Huang looked from one of them to the other. "Dr. Weiss told me a little bit about Samara's background. The Morgans breed and train horses on Moesko Island, and quite successfully, too. Children do have accidents."

"Not all her injuries can be explained away by accident. There are scars on her legs, back and buttocks that were caused by a metal belt buckle applied with enough force to break the skin. Buckles leave a distinctive mark. She was whipped more than once—some of the scars are old, some fairly new."

"What did Samara say they were?" Olivia asked.

"Bug bites. She's repeating what she was told to say."

"As you said, Doctor—we've heard it all before, and far too often." Munch concluded. "We'll need Samara's medical records from Eola, and any other materials concerning her."

"We'll have it for you when you come back with the order. In the meantime, we're getting a room ready for Samara in the psych ward."

"Thank you. Do you think she's able to answer questions at this time?" Huang asked.

"She's groggy but lucid." Dr. Walker offered. "Be careful how you handle her. She's terrified of all medical personnel other than Dr. Weiss."

"I will be. Thank you."

"I'm going to check in at the precinct." Benson said. "Cregan said he's waiting on us."

"Then we better not disappoint him." Munch concluded.


	7. The Prediction

"You've been brave and patient all day long, and I am very proud of you." Judith told Samara with all the love and approval she could convey. _God knows she needs it_.

Samara brightened a little at that, and her mouth twitched, which was the closest she ever came to a smile.

Judith went on. "I wish it were all over now, but there's still one more person who wants to talk to you. Then we'll go upstairs to your new room. We'll have dinner and watch TV." _Best not to mention that she'll have to meet the other children in the ward_. "Can you be brave and patient a little while longer?"

"Maybe," Samara said. "What kind of test is it?"

"No more tests, not tonight. He's just going to ask you some questions. Dr. Huang is a police psychiatrist. Now don't make that face! He's not like Dr. Scott. He won't prescribe any medications or send you for therapy. He's not allowed to. All he can do is ask questions. Give him a chance, okay?"

"Will you be there?"

"No. He wants to talk to you alone."

"Why?"

"Because if I'm there, you might give different answers."

"No, I wouldn't," Samara stated.

"Well, you know that and I know that, but Dr. Huang doesn't. Hang on just a little while longer. For me." Judith asked.

"Okay." Samara finally conceded.

"That's my girl. How about a hug now? A careful one, so we don't hurt your ribs." She knelt down by the child, and Samara threw her arms around the doctor's neck. Judith returned the hug, taking advantage of the embrace to whisper into a little ear, "Now remember, don't do _anything_ to him. Okay?"

"Okay," Samara echoed.

"Then I'll see you soon." Judith crossed the room and opened the door to admit the FBI psychiatrist.

"Hello, Dr. Weiss, " he greeted her, "and hello, Samara."

Closing the door behind her, Judith darted around the corner to the observation room with its two-way mirror glass and the one-way speaker.

Someone was already waiting there: John Munch. "Oh," she said, surprised. "For some reason, I thought you'd gone."

"That was Detective Benson." He shrugged. "Captain's orders. The ADA really wants Samara's medical records, so Olivia's collecting the court order. I thought I'd listen in on the good doctor at work."

Soft conversation from the other room undercut their exchange, but then Samara's voice, loud, clear, and annoyed, rang out. "If you're going to shout at me or say I'm lying when I'm not or talk to me like I'm a baby, I'm not going to answer at all."

Detective Munch blinked. "The kid's got spirit."

"If that's what you want to call it," Judith replied.

"I don't blame you," Huang replied. "If someone spoke to me like that, I wouldn't want to answer them either. Is that how Dr. Scott talks to you?"

"Yes, and he makes me take medicine that makes me sick instead of better, and gives me electroshock. I don't like electroshock."

"Dr. Scott's greatest mistake was that he let Samara get control of their sessions." Judith commented.

"That can't be good." She glanced at him, then turned her focus toward the mirror glass. It was no use. She could feel him watching her, as palpably as if he were touching her cheek, her neck.

"Why do you think Dr. Scott talks to you like that?" Huang asked.

"Because I made some pictures he didn't understand." Samara said.

"Actually, I was hoping we could talk about your pictures. Dr. Jude shared them with me. Can you explain them to me as we look at them?"

"Okay." Samara agreed.

The pictures that had disturbed Scott so much were not the crayon drawings in a stack on the table between Huang and Samara, but a set of X-rays which defied explanation. Scott had ordered cranial x-rays, to see if Samara had an internal skull malformation or brain tumors, but the transparencies that came back were…different.

They didn't show Samara's bone or brain tissue. They showed Samara's thoughts made visible as images.

Samara did not have nice thoughts.

However, Huang knew nothing of the X-rays, and while the stack in front of him also showed evidence that Samara's thoughts were not at all nice, at least they were produced by conventional means.

The picture on top showed the well. Angry spirals in black and red crayon narrowed down to a tiny Samara-figure surrounded by blue waves. At the mouth of the well a figure was caught in the act of fitting the cover into place.

Huang held it out to her. "This one first. Can you tell me about this picture?" he probed.

Samara retreated behind her hair. "That's the place where I'm going to die."

"The place where—What do you mean, Samara? Did someone tell you that you were going to die there?"

"No. Nobody told me. I see it. I know that's where I'm going to die."

"Is it a real place?" Huang probed.

"Yes. You can't die in imaginary places." she eyeballed him through her hair, using the 'Grownups are idiots' voice all children acquire rapidly.

"I mean, is it a place you've been, a place you're familiar with?"

"No," again using the 'Grownups are idiots' voice. "I'm going to die after I go there, and I'm still alive, so that means I haven't been there yet."

"All right, Samara. What else can you tell me about this place?"

"It's a well. It has water in it."

"And who is in the water?" Huang pointed to the Samara-figure.

"That's me, see? That's my hair." Samara almost always drew herself with her hair completely covering her face.

"How did you get down the well, Samara?"

"My mommy pushes me."

"And is that your mommy up here?" He pointed to the figure who was capping the well.

"Uh-huh."

"Why do you think your mommy would do that?" he asked.

"Because I'm bad. I hurt her and made her crazy and she can't take it any more."

"I see. What happens after she covers the well?"

"She goes away, and I die. It takes a long time. I scream and I cry and I try to climb up till all my fingernails come out. I get really hungry, and then I get sick, and when I can't stand up any longer, then I drown."

"I see."

"Seven days. That's how long it takes for me to die."

"Samara, where's your father in this picture? Where is he when all this happens?"

"He isn't there. He wants me to go away, but he doesn't kill me. He just won't look for me when I'm gone."

Beside Judith in the observation room, Munch made a small sound. Looking over at him, she saw that his street-worn face was set in hard and dangerous lines. "Has she told you about this?" he demanded.

"Yes. She's convinced she's going to die in that way, in that well. Nothing I say can persuade her otherwise."

"She is not going back to her parents. I've seen too many little girls used as punching bags until they wind up brain dead—or just dead."

"Samara," Dr. Huang said, softly, "do you ever think about hurting yourself?"

"No."

"Do you ever think about hurting other people?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"I—," She fell silent for a moment. "When my mommy gets sick sometimes she loses time. She sits in front of the mirror and combs her hair. Sometimes she combs it all day. When that happens, I watch television. I watch lots of different shows. I watch Sesame Street and Bewitched and Oprah and Dora the Explorer and, and I know.

"I know there are daddies—fathers," she corrected herself, choosing the more mature word, "who smile when they see their daughters and hug them and teach them to ride bikes. There are mothers who make lunches and send their kids off to school and then they do all different things, but what they don't do, they don't take belts and—." Her voice was rising, high and thin and ominous.

"Samara," Huang tried to cut in.

"—I even know what it's called. There are _shows_ about it. It's _child abuse_, and everybody says it's wrong, and if you're a, a _victim_, you're supposed to find an adult and tell, and I _tried_. I tried telling Dr. Graznick on the island, and _she_ acted like she didn't hear me. I tried telling Dr. Scott and _he_ said I was lying—."

"Samara!" Huang raised his voice.

"—I'll just disappear and _nobody_ will notice I'm gone, _nobody_ will miss me or care, and I _want_ them to _suffer_. _Everyone_ will suffer."

"Samara! What about Doctor Jude?" Huang shouted.

That shut her up. "If you shout I'm not going to answer you."

"I'm sorry." He modulated his tones. "What about Doctor Jude? Do you think she won't notice you're gone? Do you think she won't miss you?"

Samara was silent for a moment. "Doctor Jude will miss me. But I don't think she can stop it."

"Samara," Huang said with compassion, "I know Dr. Graznick and Dr. Scott didn't listen. But you didn't stop trying. You found an adult who listened, and she found other adults who also listen to you and believe you. Olivia listened to you, and she believes you. Detective Munch believes you, and I believe you, too. If you disappeared, we would notice, and we would care. Samara, I know where this well is."

"You do?" she asked, visibly puzzled.

"Yes," he said, touching his chest. "It's inside _you_, Samara. You're angry and you're hurting, and it seems like there's no way up out of a well that deep. But look." He found a white crayon in a bucket by his elbow and began to draw on her picture. "You see that? It's a ladder. And up here—." He sketched some more. "are your friends. We're going to help you get out of this place where you're trapped. We're on your side."

"But—but I want to hurt people." she whispered.

"Everybody _wants_ to hurt people sometimes. Being angry is okay. We are here to help you, Samara. We don't want you to die in that well."

In the observation room, Judith took a breath for what seemed like the first time in several minutes. _It would be nice if Huang were right. But knowing what I know about Samara—I'm afraid. For her. And for the rest of us_.

"That poor kid." Munch whispered. "That—."

"I think we're done here for tonight, Samara. If you'll wait here, I'll be right back with Dr. Jude. Okay?"

"Okay."

A moment later Huang appeared in the doorway of the observation room. "Doctor Weiss, do you know if Samara has a history of—."

"Bedwetting? No. Nor has she ever set any fires that I know of. But there are two cases of cruelty to animals on record." _That was before Samara figured out how to play with humans instead_.

"I see. Dr. Weiss, I would like to apologize. I had thought you were transferring some unmet needs of your own to Samara. I thought you were too involved, too emotional. I was wrong."

"It's all right. You only thought it. Explaining what Samara is—."

"What?" Munch snapped. "What are you two shrinks getting at?"

Huang looked at him. "Samara Morgan is the Unabomber in embryo. Perhaps it won't be bombs. Maybe she'll perfect an undetectable method of product tampering and poison baby food or aspirin. More likely it will be a pathogen such as smallpox or bubonic plague, something that will spread on its own. Whatever method she uses, it will be long-distance, and it will attract a lot of media attention. She'll want to see her crimes on television; it will be a validation of her suffering, the suffering she so desperately wants to share with others.

"She is a psychopath in the making. She will be extremely dangerous. Given her lack of empathy and her intelligence, she will never be caught. Ten years, fifteen, twenty years down the road, she will start killing people. Unless we can stop her now." Huang concluded.


	8. The Station: Part 1

"You're telling me Detective Munch did what?" Captain Cregan exclaimed.

IAB's Lieutenant Coates sneered. "According to Officer Jason Roth, Detective Munch deliberately burned a suspect's hand until it blistered. Where is Detective Munch at this time, Captain?" They were in Cregan's office with the door open, so passers-by could hear what was going on.

"Just a moment," Cregan snapped. "You mean Mariposa Gonzales? We have her in holding. Is she accusing Detective Munch of burning her?" When it came to his detectives, Cregan knew who was most likely to rough up a suspect, and that was Elliot Stabler. Munch preferred to attack with a barrage of words and wit.

"No. Not yet. She may be too scared to lodge a complaint."

"Did Officer Roth witness this alleged attack with his own eyes?" Cregan asked.

"Yes."

"Then either he's lyin' or you are." stated Fin from the doorway. "Cause Roth was behind me, and he saw what I saw, which was Detective Munch administerin' first aid. What does Officer Sabuda say? He was right alongside of Roth."

"Officer Sabuda has not come forward at this time." Coates admitted. "However. Officer Roth reported there was another witness at the scene, Nancy Denis, the duty nurse. Roth heard her scream, 'What are you doing to her?' Now I'm asking again: Where is Detective Munch?"

"Wrong again." averred Tutuola. "What that nurse said was 'What did you do to her?' 'Did' is past tense, meanin' she didn't see it happen either. As long as we're slingin' the hearsay and the he-said-she-said crap around, I can tell you what Detective Munch said happened. He said he went into the break room only to find Mariposa Gonzales holdin' her hand in the steam comin' off an electric kettle."

"What was she doing that for?" Cregan asked, as the IAD lieutenant snorted.

"That's ridiculous. Couldn't he come up with a better story than that?"

"You don't know the context." Tutuola told them. "Seems like the crazies is catching like the flu around Eola Psychiatric. Accordin' to Nancy Denis and Gordon Clay, our other suspect, our vic, Samara Morgan, is responsible."

"I can confirm that," Stabler added, "At least I can confirm what Clay's been saying. You've got to hear this guy's story, Captain. Psychic powers, astral projection—I thought he was working up an insanity plea to end all insanity pleas, but he really believes what he's saying."

"That ties into what Dr. Weiss told us when she reported the crime." Fin nodded. "And Benson said the kid's door wasn't just locked from the outside, it had two heavy bolts on it, top and bottom. The staff at Eola is freaked about this little girl. Mass hysteria."

"What kind of story are you people concocting?" exploded Lieutenant Coates.

"Hey, _we're_ not concocting anything!" Stabler shot back. "Why don't you—."

"Anyhow," Fin raised his voice. "the physical evidence will prove Munch didn't do it."

"Physical evidence?" Cregan seized on the one fragment of sanity amid the chaos.

"Yeah. Mariposa Gonzales has second degree steam burns on the palm of her hand and her fingers. You don't believe me, check the report from the emergency room. Flame burns leave soot, contact burns leave sear marks, an' flammable liquid burns set fire to the skin.

"If you're wonderin' how come I know so much about burns, it's cause I learned while I was with Narcotics. Between the heroin junkies cookin' their shots, the huffers who forget and light up a cigarette, the labs and the dealers who like to make an example of folks who owe them money, I seen it all.

"A steam burn like that takes time. You talk to that nurse, Nancy Denis, an' find out how long Munch was in there before Mariposa Gonzales started screamin'. It wasn't more than a few seconds."

"Maybe Detective Munch forced her hand into the boiling water. How about that?" snarled Coates.

Fin shook his head. "Uh-uh. Doesn't fit the facts. The burns were on the palm of her hand and fingers, an' nowhere else. That kettle was too small to fit her hand in on the flat." He held out his hand to demonstrate, and picked up Cregan's empty coffee cup. "This is smaller than the kettle, but you get the idea. The only way her hand would'a gone in was straight down, fingers first."

His fingers dove into the cup. "See? And that don't fit the burn pattern on her hand. You don't have a witness, you don't have evidence on your side, an you don't have a case. You wanna know another reason I know Munch didn't do it? Cause only a brutal stupid-ass piece of shit would'a done that, and Munch isn't a brutal stupid-ass piece of shit."

"And he's your partner," sneered Coates, trying to regain control.

"Which means I know him better than you," Fin could not be intimidated by the likes of the IAD man. "Why don't you bring Ms. Gonzales in and ask her what happened?"

Coates glared, then demanded, "Bring her up here!"

It seemed like a very long wait. "Let me handle this," Fin told the IAD lieutenant. "Munch is primary on this case and I'm secondary. She's not just a suspect, she's a witness."

Cregan nodded. "I don't want you muddying these waters, Coates. I'm not about to let you blow this for us."

"All right," barked Coates. "But if she says Munch did it—."

The phone rang. Cregan picked it up: it was Munch. "Captain, we're done here at the hospital. You can up the charges on both Dr. Scott and Clay to attempted murder. Samara Morgan has three cracked ribs and so many drugs in her system that if they were graphite you could use her for a pencil. The doctors are talking about kidney impairment and possible permanent brain damage. Any first year medical student would have known better than to mix the meds he had her taking.

"Plus there's evidence of long-term mental and physical abuse, so tell Cabot to expedite the court order for the medical records."

"That's fine." Cregan said neutrally. "I'll pass that along. Have Benson come back here to pick up the paperwork. Stay put until then."

"Is there something going on that I should know about?" Munch was swift to pick up on verbal cues.

"Probably not," Cregan said, meaning the opposite. "We'll keep you posted."

"Okay." Munch hung up.

"Perhaps we should move this to an interview room," suggested the captain. "Detective Tutuola will, I am sure, handle the interrogation in an appropriate manner."

Coates and Cregan watched as a uniform brought Mariposa Gonzales to Interview Room One.

"Ms. Gonzales. Have a seat." Fin offered. "How's your hand?"

"It still hurts." The hospital had bandaged her and fitted her up with a sling.

"I'm sure it does. Now, you understand you're under arrest for aggravated assault?"

"Yes, but I don't know why. Who was assaulted? Why would someone say I assaulted anyone?"

"I'll get to that in a moment. Were you read your rights?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand your rights as they were read to you?"

"Yes, yes, I know all about that." She rolled her eyes.

"Do you want an attorney present at this time?"

"No. Can we just get on with it?"

"All right. You're accused of assaultin' Samara Morgan, a patient at Eola Psychiatric where you work."

"Her? I never assaulted her!"

"We got a witness says you helped hold her down while Gordon Clay knelt on her."

"That was my job! I had to give her her meds."

"Was it also your job to help give her three cracked ribs? We're talking about a seven-year-old girl here."

"Why doesn't he get on with it?" Coates complained.

"Give him a moment." Cregan told the IAD lieutenant. "He's working up to it."

"Ohhhh, you don't know about that girl."

"That's true. Does it have somethin' to do with how your hand got burnt?"

"I don't know if I should tell you about that." She balked. "You're not gonna believe me. You'll say I made it up. You'll be like, she's an ignorant Latina who spends all her money on the psychic hotlines. And I'm not. I have a college education." She emphasized.

"Why wouldn't I believe you, if you're tellin' the truth?"

"Because you're out to protect the one who did it." She tapped on the table with the forefinger of her good hand.

Next to Cregan, Coates made a pleased sound.

"Who's that?" Fin asked.

"Samara Morgan." Mariposa Gonzales stated. She sat back and cupped her left elbow, cradling her burned hand.

"Walk me through how it happened." Fin instructed.

"I was going on my break, and I wanted a cup of noodles, see? So I got the kettle out, put water in it, and plugged it in. Then I catch something out of the corner of my eye. It's that girl, staring at me."

"Wasn't she locked in her room upstairs?"

"There! I told you you wouldn't believe me."

"I dunno. We been hearin' a lot of stories like yours. There's gotta be somethin' to 'em."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. What happened then?"

"I don't remember. The next thing I know there's this guy with dark glasses in my face, and my hand's on fire."

"What about him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could he have burned your hand?"

"No. You think he could've held me there as long as it took to do this," she brandished her hand, "and I wouldn't have screamed or done anything? No."

She shook her head. "It was the girl. You black out, she takes over, and you do something that gets you hurt. I'm not the first one she's done it to. Susan Cartmill was walking down the hall on the fourth floor when _she_ took her over, and Susan kept walking without noticing she'd come to the stairs. Wound up with a concussion and spiral fractures of the tibia and fibula. Those are the bones in the lower leg." She pointed to her calf.

"Interestin'." Fin said. "So what did the guy in the dark glasses do?"

"Hauled me over to the sink and stuck my hand under the cold water faucet."

"So he didn't hurt you?"

"No." Her puzzled air was unforced and genuine. "I was thowing up and everything, and he kept me from falling. I'd like to thank him. Somebody said he was a cop. Is he here?"

"Okay. You satisfied?" Cregan turned to Coates.

"For the moment." Coates spat, and left.

Cregan turned his attention back to the interview room.

"—not here right now. About this assault charge—."

"Are you gonna drop it? It was my job to see she took her medication. I mean, I didn't hurt her. And she is—what she is."

"That depends on you. Clay was the one who knelt on her, crackin' her ribs. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"He's probably looking at an attempted murder charge for that. If he agrees that all you did was medicate her, then I'll talk to the ADA, see if she'll overlook the fact that you didn't stop him, and drop the charges—."

"Oh, thank you!"

"if, in exchange, you're our witness if the case goes to trial."

Mariposa Gonzales thought it over. "What would I have to say?"

"You'd just have to answer any questions put to you truthfully. That's all. You're not gonna get a better deal. If you go to trial for assaultin' a patient, you're not gonna have a career left in nursing."

"If I get up and talk about her powers, they'd laugh me out of court."

"I don't see how her powers enter into it. You were there. You saw Clay kneel on her. That's all."

"I—I'll have to think about it."

"You do that. You got a lawyer, you talk it over with them. I'll talk to the ADA, and maybe we'll get you out of here so's you can sleep at home tonight."

Cregan nodded to himself, thinking, _I couldn't ask for a better team_.


	9. The Link

"In ten years?" Munch exploded. "Excuse me, doctor, but I should hope you'd be a little more concerned with making sure Samara's mother doesn't kill her before she turns ten!"

"Of course I am," Huang replied. "But I've never come across a child with so marked a psychological profile at such a young age. At this point, there's still hope for her, but right now she has one link and one link alone to the rest of humanity—Dr. Weiss."

He had Samara's drawings, which he leafed through swiftly, his observations tumbling out of his mouth.

"Look at these. Dark colors, anger, despair—she draws the well, over and over. Pictures of her family—the father off to the side, the mother holding onto the child—still dark, murky expressions of depression and rage. These show her in the hospital—the electroshock treatments, Dr. Scott—even more anger, see all the red? And her hair is always over her face. She's hiding, out of shame, wanting to be invisible. But these--." He held out several which showed Jude and Samara together. Jude brushing Samara's hair. Both of them sitting on the floor, drawing. Golden light poured over them in these pictures.

"See? Bright colors. Turquoise, yellow, pink, green. _Happy_ colors. She even shows her face. This is the one healthy relationship in her life."

"But she puts a dark frame around it." Munch observed. "What's that mean?"

"That isn't a picture frame. Look—there's an on/off button, volume control, and channel changer. It's a television screen. This isn't a little girl who's going to put rainbows and stars around her drawings. The only place where she sees what a normal, happy life is like, is on television. So when she wants to express how special this relationship is to her, she draws a television shell around it."

Judith turned her face away and searched around in her purse for a tissue to wipe her streaming eyes. Something white appeared in the corner of her vision. John Munch held out a cotton handkerchief, immaculately clean. She took it and mouthed, 'Thank you,' to him; he nodded.

"The problem is, one person, one relationship, isn't enough. She needs a network of stable, positive relationships, a support system of trustworthy adults. Not to mention years of therapy—."

"Right now, she needs a break from being tested and poked and prodded." Judith broke in. She tried to hand the handkerchief back to the detective, but he demurred with a gesture. "She needs her dinner, she needs to see where's she's going to be staying—she just needs some down time. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to her." She left the room.

John Munch watched her go. "You do realize you've committed not only Doctor Weiss and yourself but also Benson and me to providing Samara with that stable support system you're talking about?"

Huang sighed. "Yes. I'm sorry. It shouldn't require a lot of your time, maybe an hour or so a week. The important part is that it should be consistent. I have to talk to Cabot—Dr. Weiss isn't licensed yet and she isn't connected to Children's Hospital, we'll have to come up with some way of working this…"

"I'll let you get on with it, then." Munch said, his eyes on Dr. Weiss as she entered the therapy room where Samara waited. A nurse followed with a wheelchair, ready to take Samara up to the psychiatric ward. "I might as well get that first hour in."

* * *

A/N: Yes, a very short one this time. Sorry. I will do better next time. My many, way over due thanks to Overthemoon, Jessica, and Dr. Vannacut, my dear friends, fellow fans, and reviewers. I deeply appreciate and treasure every review I get. (hint, hint!)


	10. The Station: Part 2

A/N: A real SVU/Ring crossover—Actress Shannon Cochrane, who played Anna Morgan, Samara's mother so memorably in The Ring, made a guest appearance on L&O:SVU's sixth season episode 'Charisma'. The episode is about a David Koresh-like figure called Abraham, a messianic preacher who takes multiple 'wives', including underage girls, and has children by them.

Cochrane plays his senior 'wife', Sarah/Cindy, who gave her twelve-year-old daughter Melanie to the preacher Abraham as his youngest 'bride'. (Olivia gets to chew her out good.) As well as the similarities between Anna and Sarah/Cindy—unbalanced mothers of abused daughters whose parenting is toxic, the young actress who plays Melanie has a passing resemblance to Samara (once you overlook the fact that Melanie is supposed to be thirty weeks pregnant). Both are pale, with oval faces and long dark hair. Melanie's hair is red, however. Melanie also gets to kill someone. Girl Power!...uh, sorta.

* * *

No one is completely bad or completely good, not even SVU detectives. Don Cragen's demon was alcoholism; Odafin Tutuola neglected his family in favor of his work. John Munch was known to make cruel and mean-spirited generalizations about women loudly and without consideration for the feelings of his female co-workers. Elliot Stabler fought his dark and cruel side every day, that part of him which wanted to brutalize and kill the molesters and rapists who crossed his path. And Olivia Benson lusted after a married man—her partner.

For her part, Jude Weiss loathed and despised Doctor Graham Scott for two and a half years before Samara Morgan set foot inside the doors of Eola, and one of the many and complex reasons she persevered with the girl was because Scott had failed so miserably.

Doctor Scott was a better man than he seemed. For many years now he had provided long hours of free therapy to combat veterans with post traumatic stress disorder, helping to keep lives and families together, generously and without any desire for recognition.

Anna Morgan had been an Olympic gold medalist for individual show jumping in the equestrian division, not only winning glory for her country but inspiring young girls from coast to coast. Riding was the only sport in which women and men competed equally, the only one in which pure skill carried the day. Her victory was the victory of every female child who burned at the words, 'You (pitch/catch/run/fill in the blank) like a girl!'

Richard Morgan had his virtues too. Although he could not be bothered to stop his wife from abusing their child, or to do anything about Anna's deteriorating mental condition until it inconvenienced him, he would spend long sleepless days and nights by the side of a horse in trouble, performing even the most disgusting tasks as well as or better than any veterinarian. When he lost one, he would weep as though he had lost a brother.

So, too, did Gordon Clay have his good points. He was a thief, a petty drug dealer, and he had not only ignored the abuse Samara suffered at Eola, he had added to it. But he was an active volunteer with the Urban Feline Rescue Association, which sought to find a home for every stray cat rescued. He was one of their best fosterers, someone they relied on to take in pregnant strays and care for them and their kittens until they and their mother were ready to be adopted. He loved doing it; he loved to watch the new mother wash and care for her kittens, waited with increasing anticipation for their eyes to open, for the first uncertain, wobbly steps they took, until they were eight-week-old terrors who tore around his apartment at top speed. Sometimes he laughed so hard he came close to pissing his pants.

The people who adopted 'his' babies always commented on how happy and well-socialized they were, how friendly and loving. (However, he did give them extremely rude temporary names. The last litter had included 'Booby', 'Farts', and 'Dingleberry'.)

So his greatest concern as he waited in the interview room with his lawyer at his elbow was for Lil' Titties, his latest mother cat. She was mostly Siamese, he thought, going by her elegant bone structure and her loud, expressive voice, but she was also highly strung. She had given birth only three days before, and it was her first litter.

Had he left enough food out for her, if he had to spend the night in jail? What if she stressed out and ate her kittens? It had never happened to one of his mother cats, but another volunteer fosterer had it happen once, and she had cried for weeks. No one knew exactly why a mother cat would turn and devour the fuzzy little ones that suckled at her side. Sometimes something went wrong inside the mother's head, something that maybe made her see her babies as a threat, parasites which drained her strength and caused her pain. And then she ate them. She didn't just kill them. She ate them. Maybe she was trying to make them a part of her again, to make them part of her forever.

Sometimes something went wrong…

Clay pulled himself out of his funk and looked over at his lawyer. The man's shirt was stained. He was there in the police station, under arrest, and this guy, this guy who was supposed to get him out of there had on a shirt with a filthy collar and, Clay suspected, sweat rings under the arms. What good could this guy do?

Maybe he should have gone with the legal aid attorney after all. This stinking whale of a lawyer worked for the legal service Eola offered as part of their benefits package, just like vision and dental. Twenty dollars a week, and you got a number to call with any legal questions, a place that would do your wills or write letters threatening to sue without charging you an arm and a leg. You also got a card to keep in your wallet with a special number in case you ever got arrested, and a promise they would make bond for you up to 100,000. All of that was nice, but the lawyer who came out to represent him as promised turned out to be this bored loser who smelled of eggs.

Legal aid attorneys were different than this, weren't they? Weren't they passionate believers in the rights of the accused?

"Let's go over this again," said the smelly whale. "You were just doing your job. You work in a mental hospital, that is, a dangerous environment. Just like the police, and just like the police, sometimes you have to use force, and if somebody who wasn't there were to judge you, they might not understand what you have to do. It might look like assault, but it wasn't. You're sorry for any pain you might have caused, but you don't admit any wrong-doing."

"Uh, right." Clay hadn't said anything about who he'd used the force against, having realized that there wasn't any way he could make it sound good. Nobody would believe the truth, and—well, admitting he was arrested for hurting a seven-year-old girl (or something that looked like one)—it would be like saying he liked to kick kittens into an electric fan. It would just make him feel sick.

And that got him worried about Lil' Titties all over again. Would she be okay? Who could he call to check on her? He ran over his mental list of the other volunteers, trying to remember who lived closest, and if his neighbor who had the spare keys was home. Would he be allowed another phone call?

"As for the drug possession, they misinterpreted what they saw. You were getting the meds together according to your own system. No theft was involved. You just panicked when you saw the cop, that's all."

"Right," Clay agreed, hoping nobody ran an inventory check on Eola's pharmaceuticals.

Then the cops came in, the same two as before, the tough looking black guy and the good looking white guy. "Hi. I'm Detective Tutuola, and this is Detective Stabler." said the black guy.

"Barry Giffen." The sweaty whale went on to reel off his firm's name. "My client is totally innocent. His actions were misinterpreted, and once the truth is known, everything will be explained."

"Uh-huh. Explain this." Tutuola—stupid name, it sounded like margarine for ballet dancers—put two pictures down on the table. They were photographs of Samara Morgan, although they showed more of her face than Clay had ever seen in person. Unfortunately they also showed big purple bruises.

"What are these?" his lawyer asked.

"These are pictures of the patient he assaulted." Tutuola drawled.

"Didn't he tell you he was arrested for hurting a little girl?" asked the white guy, Stabler. He still looked like he took that personal, as if Samara Morgan was one of his own kids.

"No, he didn't." Giffen had a look on his face like he had bitten an apple and found half a worm left in it. "A moment." He held a folder up to cover his face and hissed into Clay's ear. "What the hell is this? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I—I knew how it would sound."

"Goddamnit. Goddamnit. Who witnessed it? Who reported it? Who took those pictures?"

"I don't know—oh. Wait. It was probably Doctor Weiss. Or Beatrice Dover, no, she's off this week. Doctor Weiss." Some people weren't bothered by Samara Morgan at all, but even most of them didn't go out of their way to get involved. Bea Dover didn't give a shit about anything but putting in her time and going home. Doctor Weiss, though. His hours and hers didn't usually match up, so he didn't know for sure, but rumor had it she spent hours in Room 506 when she pulled the overnight shift. Weird.

"Doctor Weiss. Who's he?"

"She. She's a resident at Eola."

"Does she count for anything around there?"

"Hell no. Not since Scott realized he goofed up."

"Goofed up how?"

"Well, she goes by the name Judith now, but her name's really Jude. Scott forgot who all he interviewed and picked her thinking he was getting a guy. Everybody knew it because he was talking about 'he' and 'him'—before 'he' showed up with tits and a ponytail. She's all girl, too. Not a tranny."

"How do you know? Did you—?"

"No." Dr. Weiss wasn't bad looking, but she hardly ever smiled, never giggled, and her eyes narrowed when she thought hard, which was most of the time. He liked wide-eyed girls who were fun and flirty. "Her—her figure. Trannies don't have hips like hers."

"Is she _reliable_?"

"Yeah. That's why Scott can't kick her out to the curb. She'd have the review board down on him to show cause."

"Goddamnit. Look, have you ever worked with children before?"

"No."

"Ever have any training in how to handle child patients?"

"No."

"So they expected you to work with her cold? Nobody offered to train you?"

"No," he said, forgetting that Dr. Weiss had sent out e-mails offering a quick course in how to safely subdue even the most violent child patient.

His lawyer straightened up. "Sorry. Detectives, my client was placed in a position where his training was inadequate. While he did injure—?"

"Her name is Samara Morgan." Stabler told him.

"Samara Morgan. While he did injure Samara Morgan, it was unintentional. He has no experience with children, and his employer failed to prepare him. He would have availed himself of any—."

"Oh, you mean like the class Doctor Weiss offered to teach on her own time?" Tutuola had that look on his face again, the 'You stink' look. "Nice lady. She documented _everythin_'."

The folder came up again. "Why didn't you just dig your own grave and lie down in it? Never mind. Detectives, my client is prepared to plead guilty to assault if the drug charges can be dropped."

"Like hell I am!" Clay spluttered.

"Unfortunately, the stakes got higher while your client was down in holding." Stabler informed them. "Three of Samara Morgan's ribs are cracked because your client knelt on her. He_ knelt_ on her chest." The detective's voice was getting louder and angrier as he went. "According to Doctor Walker and Doctor Ueda at Children's hospital, your client came _this_ close," the man held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart, "to breaking her ribs, puncturing her lung, and drowning her in her own blood. I hope you appreciate how lucky you are." Stabler leaned over the table, right in Clay's face. "Because you're only looking at _attempted_ murder charges."

"By the way," Tutuola slipped into the moment. "what was Mariposa Gonzales doin' while you were kneelin' on the kid?"

"Mariposa?" Clay asked, surprised. "She had the syringe and the pills."

"So she gave her an injection and had her swallow the pills?"

"That's right."

"She do anythin' else?"

"No."

"Thanks."

Clay's lawyer sighed. "Is there anything my client can offer you as his part of a deal?"

"That depends on what he knows." A blonde chick who was even less smiley and narrower eyed than Dr. Weiss entered the room. "Alexandra Cabot. Assistant District Attorney."

"About what?" his lawyer asked.

"About why Dr. Scott had Samara Morgan on three times the recommended dose of lithium, among other things."

His lawyer looked at him.

Clay licked his lips. "Uh—can I make another call first? My cat just had kittens a couple of days ago. I want to call someone to take care of her, because explaining this is going to take a while."

The blonde woman shook her head. "What's your cat's name?"

He didn't hesitate. "Lil' Mittens." This woman scared him. A name change was nothing compared with keeping his balls.

"Lil' Mittens. All right. Someone loan him a phone, and let's get on with it."

* * *

A/N: BTW, Lil' Titties (or Lil' Mittens) and her new family were just fine. Overthemoon, this chapter is dedicated to you, so you have something more substantial to finish your weekend.


	11. The Ward

A/N: Yeesh. What do I have to do to get reviews?

* * *

Munch caught up with Dr. Weiss, Samara and the nurse on the way to the elevator. "I'm going up to the ward with you," he explained. "I have to talk to the ward staff about a few things."

"What things?" Samara asked, glaring up at him.

"About keeping you safe, princess." He smiled at her. Samara's anger worried Huang and distressed Dr. Weiss, but to Detective Munch, an angry man himself, it was far better than the apathy he saw in so many abused children. "Right now, people you haven't even met yet are getting ready to go to family court and tell a judge you need protection and help. Do you know what family court is?" The elevator arrived, and they got in.

She nodded. "I learned about it on TV. Am I going to be a foster child?"

"No. Not for a while, anyway. Right now it's better for you to be in the hospital. These folks will take good care of you. This is a safe place. Nothing is going to hurt you here."

She eyed him for a moment longer, then asked. "Do I have to stay in this wheelchair?"

"Not once we get up to your room," the nurse answered. "Then you can get up and walk around the ward. There's a lot to explore. We have a classroom, a rec room, and a dining room. Plus we have a time-out room."

"What's a time-out room?"

"Here, when someone has trouble controlling their behavior, they get a time-out in a room with thick quilts and padding on the walls and floor. That way they don't hurt themselves if they have a tantrum." The nurse explained. "Once they've been quiet for fifteen minutes, they can come out."

"You mean a padded cell." Samara stated bluntly. "I learned about them at Eola. Just because I'm a child doesn't mean I'm stupid."

"I didn't think you were." The nurse seemed taken aback, and her hand shot up to her temple, as if she felt a sudden pain.

"It's all right, Samara," Dr. Weiss said softly. "Take it easy, okay."

"Okay."

"Samara understands a lot more than a lot of children her age," Dr. Weiss explained. "We have a deal: I explain things, and she doesn't get mad." The doors opened, and they got out.

The nurse wheeled Samara to a set of double doors and stopped. Using an intercom, she spoke, "Barbara Youngblood. I have a new patient, Samara Morgan."

The intercom crackled. "Hi, Barb. Turn and smile at the camera, will you? Thanks." The doors swung open, and they entered.

"This is Samara," Nurse Youngblood explained.

"Hello, Samara. I'm Simone Corbin. I'm going to be one of your nurses." Simone was young, black, and had a smile like an ice cream sandwich on a sticky summer afternoon. "Are you the Morgans?" she asked Munch and Doctor Weiss.

"No." Munch showed her his badge as Jude pulled out her work ID. "Detective John Munch, Manhattan SVU. Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure." She stepped to the side. Behind them, Samara asked, "Are there other kids here?"

He missed the reply, as he told Simone. "While Samara is here because of other issues, it's come out that she's been the victim of abuse by a family member going back for years. Now, tomorrow she'll have a social worker, court orders, anything you could ask for, but tonight—Tonight it's like we're wearing one of those hospital gowns. Our collective butts are hanging out. I don't want anyone removing Samara or even speaking to her.

"The mother's name is Anna Morgan. She's a mental patient, and we suspect she's the one responsible for the abuse. Not only has she admitted she has thoughts about killing her daughter, Samara's convinced she's going to. Watch for her. She's in her forties, a little taller than you, dark reddish hair, on the thin side."

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "The father's called Richard Morgan. I only have a verbal description of him… He's a big, beefy guy with white hair, thick black eyebrows, about sixty. While there's nothing to indicate he's been abusing her, too, he did nothing to stop it and didn't do anything about his wife's mental condition until she wasn't able to cook and clean anymore."

"Sounds like a prince of a guy," Simone commented. "Okay, he doesn't get access either. Anybody else we should know about?"

"Not that I know of, but it's best to err on the side of caution, isn't it? Don't even admit she's here if you don't have to. Now, as for who does have access: Children's Services, other SVU detectives, Dr. Weiss there, Dr. Huang—they're fine. Check ID, call security or the police if you have to—and here's my card." He took one out and handed it over to her. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Samara's going to share room 614 with Constance Satran. That's down the hall that way." She pointed.

He took the opportunity to look around. _Of all the sad places in the world_, he thought, a _mental ward for children has to be one of the saddest_. _There's just something wrong about it. _It might have been any hospital ward, except for the mattresses lining the hall. It was obvious children were sleeping on them, because they were made up for bed.

He was about to ask if the overcrowding was that bad, when Samara voiced his concern in different words. "Why are there beds in the hallway?"

"Some of the children here have thoughts about hurting themselves," Dr. Jude explained. "Those kids sleep in the hall where the staff can keep an eye on them."

"Oh. _I_ don't have thoughts about hurting myself."

"I know." Jude replied.

"Anyway, I don't sleep."

"I know that, too." This time the doctor's voice had a touch of humor in it.

"She doesn't sleep at all?" Nurse Youngblood asked.

"Samara has a sleep disorder—and yes, every conceivable medication has been tried. In my opinion, it's psychosomatic. That means I think you'll sleep when you're ready to sleep. We just don't know when that'll be yet."

"But if she doesn't sleep—?"

"Samara and I have a deal. If she can be quiet doing things like reading and drawing while I get my paperwork done, then I tell her a story. If she can be quiet on nights when I'm not there, then the next time we watch DVDs on my laptop with headphones. Does that deal still hold, Samara?"

"Uh-huh. Are you going to be here tonight, Dr. Jude?"

Jude smiled. "Not tonight, sweetie. I was up all last night and all of today. I need to go home and get some rest, even if you don't."

"But you said you were going to stay and—." Samara panicked.

"Yes, I'm going to stay and have dinner and then watch TV with you. Don't worry. I won't let you down."

"This is 614," said Nurse Youngblood. Evidently Constance Satran had thoughts of hurting herself, because her mattress lay on the floor outside. "And this is Mary-Beth. She's one of our nurse's aides. She'll help you get settled."

Mary-Beth was petite, dark-haired, and cute. "Hello, Samara. What a pretty name; I don't think I've ever heard it before. Are these your clothes? Let me take them."

"Are all the kids here because they were abused?" Samara wondered.

"They're all here because they have emotional and behavioral issues, which often go along with being abused. Maybe when you get to know some of them, you'll find out what their reasons are. Look—you have a window here." Dr. Jude called her attention to it. "It faces east. You'll have the morning sun."

"It has a grating over it, though."

"True, but so does mine at my apartment. In big cities, you need them."

"So does mine," Munch added. "I don't think I'd sleep right without it."

"Why?" Samara asked, but that particular topic was derailed by the nurse's aide.

"And here's the bathroom. Now, you're not going to like this, but since we have to test your," Mary-Beth cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, "pee, when you have to do Number One, we want you to tell us. You can go up to any nurse or aide and tug on our sleeves. Plus, every time you do it, you get a sticker and a checkmark by your name on the classroom board. The person who has the most checkmarks by the end of the day gets to choose which movie we watch."

"Do I have to?" Samara asked Dr. Jude.

"It won't be that bad, and it is important. Besides, the stickers are nice."

"Okay, then."

"Do you have to go to the toilet now?" Mary-Beth asked.

"No."

"Then would you like to join the other kids in the rec room? They're playing a game before we have dinner."

"Uh—I don't know."

"Well, I'll let you think about it while I get something, okay?" Mary-Beth left the room.

"Dr. Jude. I don't know any kids! I never played with anybody but you. I don't know what to do!" Samara wailed. "They won't like me. _Nobody_ likes me. I don't _like_ it here. I don't want to be here. I _want_ to be back in Eola where it was just me and you!" The last sentences changed in tone, shading from distress to anger.

Dr. Weiss immediately sank to her knees and folded the little girl in her arms. "Samara, it's all right. I need you to calm down and listen to me. I know you're afraid. I was afraid this morning when I went to the police station, and it turned out all right. Now it's true that they may not like you, but you might not like them. And you know what? It isn't important. You don't _have_ to like them. You just have to get along with them. And if any of them give you any trouble, you just have to tell one of the nurses. They'll stop the trouble, whatever it is. I promise.

"And you know something else. You're wrong. _I_ like you. I liked you before you ever liked me. You hated me for weeks, and I _never_ let that stop me. Now see what good friends we are?"

"For what it's worth, princess, I like you too." Munch put in, patting Samara on her shoulder.

Her head snapped back, her hair falling away from her face. Her eyes were red with tears, and her mouth quivered with anguish as she tried to form a word. She tried again. It came out as a squeak.

"Why?!"


	12. The Station: Part 3

John Munch boiled into Interview Room One like a chastising angel.

With him he brought the truth, although in this case the truth wasn't holy writ or conspiracy theories. Instead he carried a battered and dog-eared copy of the Physician's Desk Reference, a 3,200 page guide to all current prescription medications, their uses, side effects, and adverse combinations, among other things. He had borrowed it from M.E. Melinda Warner. The other item he brought with him was Huang's pocket recorder. Samara would speak out on her own behalf, at one remove, adding her accusations to those of the city. Fin had his back, as ever, following with a folder of documents and photographs.

"Doctor Scott." John put as much contempt into the name as he could. "I'm Detective Munch. This is my partner, Detective Tutuola." Scott had lawyered up, but his attorney of choice was twenty years younger than the psychiatrist and looked ill at ease. Too young, Munch hoped, to have much influence over his client.

"Let's talk about Samara Morgan." He slammed the Desk Reference down on the table as he pulled out his chair and sat.

"My client would like an explanation of the outrageous charges which have been brought against him," blustered Scott's lawyer.

"I'm sure he would, but to do that, we have to talk about Samara Morgan. Now yesterday, one of your client's hired goons, an orderly named Gordon Clay, knelt on Samara Morgan's chest and arm while one of his nurses forced medication down her throat. Detective Tutuola, would you show them the evidence?"

"My pleasure." Fin opened the folder and brought out not just the cell phone photos, but the report from Children's Hospital. "Your boy Clay cracked three of her ribs when he left those bruises. Any more pressure, and he'd a broken them, possibly puncturin' her lung or her heart. The guy's about my size," he explained for the benefit of the lawyer, "and Samara Morgan is only seven years old."

"Her injuries are certainly regrettable," replied Scott's attorney, "but my client neither inflicted them nor did he order anyone else to treat her roughly."

"No, that's true. He didn't. He also didn't train his staff in how to properly restrain children. He didn't support the efforts of the staff member who tried—you know, I could go on for hours about all the things Dr. Scott didn't do." Munch sat forward and fixed Scott with an unfathomable stare through his smoked glass lenses.

"Days, even." commented Fin.

"But while I would like nothing better than to go into excruciating detail about every last one of his failings as a doctor, a psychiatrist, and a human being, I think I'll leave that for our ADA to cover at his trial."

"What trial?" Scott barked with laughter. "On those ridiculous charges? Obstruction of justice, endangering the welfare of a minor, depraved indifference, and failure to report child abuse? With my history of treating mental patients? You'll never get an indictment."

"Oh, you don't think so?" Munch's temper flared. "Well how about this, Doctor Scott?" He opened the Desk Reference to the bookmark he had placed in the L's. "Since you don't seem to be familiar with this particular volume, I'll read it out loud to you. _Lithium_. Not recommended for children younger than eight. Samara Morgan is seven. The required dosage,15-20mg per kg of body weight, is slightly less than the toxic level."

His voice grew louder as he explained. "That means the dosage which works is only slightly less than the dosage which will kill. Samara Morgan weighs 24.3 kilograms. Therefore the required dosage, _if_ it were safe for her to take this stuff at all, which it isn't, would be no more than 486 milligrams, and as of this morning, you had her on a dosage of two thousand milligrams. _Two thousand milligrams_. That is over four times the highest safe dosage. Over four times! Samara Morgan may be facing dialysis at any moment. She may wind up with permanent kidney dysfunction. She had perfectly healthy kidneys when she entered your care, that's in her medical records. But you poured poison into her. You may have permanently injured her health. What were you thinking, Doctor Scott? What the_ hell_ were you trying to accomplish?"

Both Scott and his attorney were trying to get a word in edgewise. Munch shouted them down. "You also had her on just as high a dose of half a dozen other meds, including Haldol. There's something here about drug interactions with lithium: High doses of haloperidol, marketed under the brand name of Haldol, may be hazardous when used with lithium; irreversible toxic encephalopathy has been reported. Do you know what that means? _**Permanent brain damage**_! I've seen that kid. I've talked to her and watched her try to walk. She slurs her words and drools involuntarily. She walks like an extra from the Dawn of the Dead. And it may be permanent. She didn't do those things before she became your patient, Doctor Scott. _You_ did that to her. What is the primary injunction of the physician, Doctor? _First, do no harm_."

He repeated himself. "Do. No. Harm. That is why you are being charged with attempted murder, Doctor Scott. Because you never figured out what was wrong with her, you started prescribing drugs, just experimenting to see what might work. When you got frustrated, you upped the dosage. Then you upped it again. You poisoned Samara Morgan, you tortured her with electroshock, and when she still refused to get better, when she was obviously worse off from your treatment, you decided to cover your tracks.

"A lobotomy would cover up a lot of your sins—no, your _crimes_, Doctor Scott. Damage her brain even further, to cover the damage already done. And you want to know the ironic part, Doctor? Samara Morgan's intellect is somehow, miraculously intact. She is—." He remembered her pathetic, tear-stained little face, and his words caught in his throat for a heartbeat. "—very intelligent. She knows what's wrong with her. She even told you. And you refused to listen. You didn't believe her."

The interview room was choked with silence as thick as stagnant water. "That—that's ridiculous." Scott tried to laugh it off. "She's apathetic, unresponsive, uncommunicative, and borderline mentally retarded. I don't know what you imagine—."

"Let's have Samara tell her own story. I think she does it best." Munch reached in his pocket and pulled out Huang's recorder.

The session began. Samara responded to Huang's first few questions with monosyllables, until he asked her, "Would you be willing to answer a few questions for me?"

She replied, "Okay, but if you're going to shout at me or say I'm lying when I'm not or talk to me like I'm a baby, I'm not going to answer at all."

"I don't blame you," Dr. Huang's reply was stated softly. "If someone spoke to me like that, I wouldn't want to answer them either. Is that how Dr. Scott talks to you?"

"Yes, and he makes me take medicine that makes me sick instead of better, and gives me electroshock. I don't like electroshock."

Their conversation continued. Munch watched Scott's face as he listened, observing the surprise, amazement, and anger chase one another over the psychiatrist's features.

"Do you ever think about hurting other people?" Huang asked Samara on the recording.

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"I—," She fell silent for a moment. "When my mommy gets sick sometimes she loses time. She sits in front of the mirror and combs her hair. Sometimes she combs it all day. When that happens, I watch television. I watch lots of different shows. I watch Sesame Street and Bewitched and Oprah and Dora the Explorer and, and I know. I know there are daddies—fathers," she corrected herself, choosing the more mature word, "who smile when they see their daughters and hug them and teach them to ride bikes. There are mothers who make lunches and send their kids off to school and then they do all different things, but what they don't do, they don't take reins and—." Her voice was rising, high and thin and ominous.

"Samara," Huang tried to cut in.

"—I even know what it's called. There are _shows_ about it. It's _child abuse_, and everybody says it's wrong, and if you're a, a _victim_, you're supposed to find an adult and tell, and I _tried_. I tried telling Dr. Graznick on the island, and _she_ acted like she didn't hear me. I tried telling Dr. Scott and _he_ said I was lying—."

"Samara!" Huang raised his voice.

"—I'll just disappear and _nobody_ will notice I'm gone, _nobody_ will miss me or care, and I _want_ them to _suffer_. _Everyone_ will suffer."

"Samara! What about Doctor Jude?" Huang shouted.

That shut her up. "If you shout I'm not going to answer you."

"I'm sorry." He modulated his tones. "What about Doctor Jude? Do you think she won't notice you're gone? Do you think she won't miss you?"

Samara was silent for a moment. "Doctor Jude will miss me. But I don't think she can stop it."

"Samara," Huang said with compassion, "I know Dr. Graznick and Dr. Scott didn't listen. But you didn't stop trying. You found an adult who listened, and she found other adults who also listen to you and believe you. Olivia listened to you, and she believes you. Detective Munch believes you, and I believe you, too. If you disappeared, we would notice, and we would care." Munch stopped the recording.

"That is the child _you_ called apathetic, unresponsive, uncommunicative, and borderline retarded. That is the child who cried out to you for help, and you didn't believe her. That is the child you did your part to destroy. And when you get up in front of a judge and jury, and we present all of our evidence, including your case notes—Well, I think you'll want to take a long book with you when you go to prison, Doctor. I think you'll have plenty of time to get it read. But not this one." Munch patted the Physician's Desk Reference. "You won't need it. Because you'll never practice in your field again."


	13. The Apartment

Jude staggered up the final flight of stairs to the third-floor walkup apartment she called home, set her bags down, and pulled out her cell phone. Given the neighborhood, she and her roommate had a rule: come nightfall, no matter the hour, the chains and deadbolts went on, and anyone who wanted to come in after that called for access.

"Hello, Andie. It's me, and there's a three hundred pound maniac on PCP who's got a knife to my throat, so take your time." The outrageous claim was a password of sorts; if Andrea _hadn't_ heard about a crazed killer or rapist, she would have known to call the police.

"Hang on." Jude heard a thump shortly followed by the sounds of chains and bolts being drawn. The door opened, and there stood her roommate, Andrea Hoffman, who taught English at a private high school a few blocks away. Her name was misleadingly white-bread, as Andie had been adopted from Korea as an infant. She had an attractive, square-shaped face, blond streaks painted in her black hair, and an hourglass figure. "I'd ask you how your day was, except that I heard about it on the news. 'Renowned Psychiatric Hospital faces allegations of patient abuse', or something to that effect. So old Scott blew you off, huh?"

"Great. Can I please get in the door first?" She bent and gathered up her bags.

"Oh, okay. If you have to." Andie said jokingly as she stood aside and let Jude in. Rents being what they were in Manhattan, all that the two women could afford was a one-bedroom, but they had used all their ingenuity, not to mention several tall bookshelves, to transform the living room into a second bedroom and the dining room into a living room. A coin toss decided that Jude got the living room, and so far the arrangement had worked.

The dining room turned living room had a loveseat, and Jude let herself flop on it, dropping her bags on the floor. "Now to answer your question, yes, Scott blew me off. I sent him an e-mail telling him I was going to go to the police, I left messages on his office phone, his cell, and his home phone. And I waited for a reply. After he sent me an e-mail back telling me that if I needed an outlet for my nurturing impulses that badly, maybe I should have a child of my own, I walked out the door of Eola and hailed a cab."

"What an asshole." Andie commented, taking a seat on a cushion by the coffee table.

"Yeah. On the other hand, he's been arrested and charged with attempted murder."

"Whoo-hoo! Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. How's Samara?" Jude had shared a lot—but not all, never all—of the child's story with Andie.

"Samara is safe in Children's Hospital. That's why I'm so late. After we took her there, I stayed to help her through the tests and get her settled.

"Poor kid. I'll bet she was freaked."

"You don't know the half of it. The worst part of it for her was having to interact with the other children. She was fine—well, mostly fine—dealing with the police, she put up with the tests and with talking to the psychiatrist, but realizing she would be living with other children sent her into a panic."

"So what did you do?"

"I was there. I stayed there. They had this little bowling game going in the rec room, hollow plastic pins and a fake ball. Samara joined in, and I watched. I stayed through the game. Then I went and got my dinner and brought it back up to the ward, so we could eat together. After that it was time for a movie. Dumbo.

"You know, that movie is full of really inappropriate material, such as racist stereotypes in the form of a flock of crows and an extended sequence making fun of delirium tremens. Quite frankly, I was appalled." It was much easier to talk about things like movies, glossing over how tense Samara had been and how on edge Jude herself had been, waiting for something to happen.

"After that, it was time for lights out. I got her ready for bed, even if she won't sleep…" What else to say? "I was very impressed by the Special Victims Unit—by the primary detective who's handling Samara's case in particular, but they were all very competent, very understanding."

"Any good-looking single ones?" Andie asked.

"Male or female?" Jude raised an eyebrow at her. They had occasionally joked about how much easier dating would be if they weren't straight.

"Oh, whichever." Andie waved a hand in the air.

"The guy you'd probably think was the best-looking was married. The female detective was so gorgeous that she made me feel like a boy. One of them was a very light-skinned black man. He had strong features, a very strong presence."

"So which one of them was the principal who impressed you so much?" Andie used her toe to snag one of Jude's bags and inch it her way.

Jude put her foot down on the bag. "Not so fast…He's the one I haven't told you about yet. Think Humphrey Bogart going silver, with dark glasses, and you'll get the picture."

"Humphrey Bogart? Really?"

"Uh—not so much in facial features as in his charisma. You know, battered around by life, seen it all, 'Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.'" she quoted.

"Look at you, flashing your brains around. He must really have impressed you." Andie picked up a pencil and twirled it in her fingers.

"He did. It was how he treated Samara that made the most impression on me. He was very kind to her, genuinely kind. Of course, he's also at least twenty years older than I am and a four-time strike-out in marriage."

"Four times married and divorced?"

"Yeah. Anyway—." She opened the nearest bag. "As you may have noticed, I did do some shopping, but it's not for me. All of Samara's clothes were white, and most of them were either hand-wash or delicate cycle, cold water only. After three months of manhandling in Eola's industrial washing machines, most of her stuff is looking pretty ratty, not to mention dingy. This nurse's aide at Children's Hospital gave me a list of what they recommend a child bring, and I shopped for what was on the list."

"Well, come on! Show, show! I wanna see!" Andie sat up at attention. "The only thing more fun than shopping for yourself is shopping for a little kid."

"Okay." Jude started pulling garments out of the bag. "I mostly chose styles where it wouldn't matter if it was an exact fit or not, and everything is easy-care."

"And I see you went about as far in the opposite direction from white as you possibly could." Andie commented. "Oh, I love that top with the daisies."

"Isn't it cute?" Jude spread it out. "Hey, they're cheerful, and if anybody needs cheering up, this kid does. Besides, I have a theory about why she freaks people out. It's mostly because she goes around looking like one of Tim Burton's animated characters. Who could be freaked out by a little girl in pink capris and a daisy-print top? If I didn't think it would make her hide under the bed and refuse to come out, I'd take a pair of shears and give her a cute little pixie cut. That way people could see her face."

"So instead you bought her scrunchies, barrettes, and hairbands." Andie laid the accessories out on the coffee table.

"Yeah. Now all I have to do is persuade her to use them. Anyhow, I covered the list. Three tops, three bottoms, five sets of underwear, five pairs of socks..."

"Do you still have this list?" Andie asked.

"Sure. Here." Jude handed her friend a paper. "One sweater, one jacket,--."

"It says one sweater or one jacket, not one sweater and one jacket." Andie corrected her.

"It does?"

"Uh-huh. Where'd you get the money for this spree, anyway? There's a lot of stuff here."

"The city's going to comp me for two hundred dollars, since she's in the care of children's services now."

"If I were you, I'd have waited until they cut me the check first. There has to be more than two hundred dollars worth of merchandise here." Andie looked at the second bag meaningfully.

"Not that much more. Give me some credit. I do know how to shop!"

"That's true. What's in the second bag?"

"A robe, three sets of pajamas,--."

"For the kid who never sleeps?" Andie snorted.

"She can change into them. She has to wear something at night, after all. A pair of slippers, a hairbrush, comb, and toothbrush. Practical things."

"How do you explain the ladybug necklace, then?" Andie held it up.

"An investment in building her self-esteem." Jude smiled.

"Yeah, right. How is it you still have a job? I thought Scott was just waiting for an excuse to fire you."

"Oh, he did. As soon as I showed up with the police. I doubt it was legal, but the last thing I've had time to do today is call the review board or a lawyer. Anyhow, I have a job interview in the morning."

"Whoa. How did that happen?" Andie leaned forward.

"The FBI profiler set it up." Jude pried off one of her shoes and rubbed the ball of her foot.

"FBI profiler? You _have_ had an interesting day. What's the interview for?"

Jude frowned as she rubbed. "God, I'm so tired. You know, I don't remember."

"How can you not remember what job you're applying for?"

"Easy. I was going down to the cafeteria at Children's Hospital to get something for my dinner, hoping Samara wouldn't lay waste to the psych ward in my absence, and Dr. Huang leaned over to ask me if I had any background in community or social work. So I told him, yes, I'd been a Peace Corps Volunteer and spent four years in Africa as an AIDS educator. He passed that along to someone at the other end, and then asked me if I could update my resume and be down at Children's Services main office at 9:20 in the morning. I said sure. You know, I don't think he said what it was."

"So you'd be working for Children's Services. But…what about your status? Is that going to be an issue?"

_It always comes back to that._ "I don't see why. There is absolutely nothing I would be doing with children that could possibly pass HIV on to them. They can't legally discriminate against me. The only aspect of medicine from which I'm banned is surgery. Besides, I'm taking the HIV cocktail, and my viral load is getting lower all the time." _Go to Africa to educate people about AIDS, come back with HIV. Way to ruin your life, Jude,_ she told herself, as she had a thousand times, and would a thousand times again. _Way to ruin your life_.


	14. The Next Morning

It wasn't often that so many of the Special Victims Unit gathered together for breakfast, and even rarer that Alexandra Cabot joined them, but this was a special occasion, a council of war, even though most of them weren't yet aware of it.

Benson and Stabler were there with their coffee and muffins, sneaking goo-goo eyed glances at each other which the others pretended not to see, while Huang frowned at either his Blackberry or his blackberry jam on toast. Cragen had a flaky bear claw and coffee, while Munch had a bagel with cream cheese and lox and Fin devoured a short stack of pancakes. Cabot had fresh fruit and a crispbread.

"—shoulda been there, man, it was classic. Total annihilation." Fin told Stabler. "Our man Munch here didn't leave enough of that doctor for the cleaners to bother sweepin' up. He woulda been tossed outa the Inquisition for being too nasty."

Cabot straighted up and delivered a line in a funny accent. "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

Everyone stared at her for a split second. "Wasn't that a Monty Python line?" Benson asked incredulously.

"Hey, I watched their movies in college just like everyone else." Cabot defended herself.

"I don't think I've ever heard you make a joke before," Munch marveled. "Mark this one down on the calendar, folks, this is a historic occasion. And if I had been around during the time of the Inquisition, don't forget I would have been on the receiving end of the questioning, thank you very much. However, this is not why I asked you all to come in early this morning. The case of Samara Morgan brings with it some unique complications."

"We already know she was being abused at home." Cragen commented, setting down his coffee. "Dr. Weiss hinted at it, Benson confirmed it. and the hospital has physical evidence. She won't be going home with her parents any time soon, if ever."

Cabot said, "I don't believe I can make a criminal case against the Morgans at this time. Yes, Anna was abusing Samara, but she stopped when they entered a mental institution. That shows she's making a proactive effort toward her own recovery. This one is going to have to be settled in family court, and their goal is family reunification whenever possible. Unless there's an apparent reason to deny Richard Morgan custody of his daughter, Children's Services will send Samara home with him. The most they can do is insist that Anna take a parenting class before she returns home—if and when she gets better."

Munch shook his head. "Dr. Huang, perhaps it's time to share that recording—and your theory."

Huang brought out his digital recorder, and played it again. Some of those present had heard it; others had not, and only Munch knew Huang's prediction.

They listened. When it was done, nearly everyone spoke at once.

"So you're saying she isn't sane." Cabot began, while Stabler protested, "I've seen and heard a lot during my time on the force, but—."

"Where is she getting that idea from?" Benson asked.

Cragen said, " She's certainly articulate for a seven-year-old—."

Fin added, "I thought when I heard that last night that was just twisted—."

Huang's quiet intensity undercut the ruckus. "That is the voice of a future serial killer, a mass murderer who will seek revenge against a world that never listened to her or cared about her agony. At this point in time, we can still stop her. We can still save her."

"But she's only seven!" protested Benson.

"Jeffery Daumer was seven once." Huang replied. "So were David Berkowitz, Aileen Wuornos, John Wayne Gacy, and everyone you've ever arrested."

"How do you know?" Cabot leaned forward. "On what are you basing your conclusions?"

"First, she has a history of cruelty to animals—the worst of the triad of indicators, and she is the victim of child abuse. Next, she has no self-destruct mechanism.

"Wait: hear me out. Women make up over half the population, yet they commit only fifteen percent of all the violent crimes that take place in this country. That's because the same pressures that make a man explode usually make a woman implode. She will turn that anger and rage into depression and self-destruction. It may begin with eating disorders and self-mutilation, progress into addictions such as promiscuity, drug use, and relationships where their partners abuse them, frequently ending in suicide—even if it often doesn't look like suicide. Dying of drug overdose, murdered by an abusive partner they wouldn't leave, drunk-driving accidents, and so on.

"Samara Morgan has no such tendency—but she does think about harming others. She has all the rage and sense of aggrievement against the world that one usually sees in adult psychopaths. She knows right from wrong but she's also seen on a daily basis how hypocritical adults can be when it comes to living up to the standards they set. She's intelligent enough to know what not to do, how not to get caught. The average male serial killer is active for about four years. The average female serial killer is active for eight, mainly because of differences in method and motive."

"But for Christ's sake, she's still a little girl!" Stabler protested. "You can't say for certain what she will or won't do."

"Children's Services can't refuse to return a child to her parents because of what she might become when she grows up." Cragen stated. "I agree that it doesn't sound as though she should be returned to her parents, but you'll have to come up with reasons you can take to Family Court."

"How about if we can get her dad to own up that he knew about the abuse but didn't do jack about it?" Fin suggested. "That's depraved indifference right there."

"There's also the mass hysteria angle." Munch added. "Anna Morgan has paranoid delusions that Samara has psychic powers. She managed to infect most of the staff at Eola, so what are the odds she's convinced her husband too? That would be a good reason not to send her home with him."

"What kind of psychic powers?" Olivia hadn't heard about that angle as yet.

"Clay says Samara gets into people's heads and makes them see and do things." Stabler explained. "According to him, it starts with high-pitched noises, moves up to headaches, and escalates to hallucinations."

"From there it progresses to black-outs during which Samara makes people hurt themselves." Munch continued.

"This is significant." Huang's brow furrowed. "If it's at all possible, I want to interview Anna Morgan."

Munch's cell phone rang; answering it, he raised a finger, excusing himself from the table.

Huang continued. "According to Dr. Weiss, the Morgans live on a horse ranch, in as close to total isolation as possible. Anna home-schools Samara—that is, she does when she's well enough. Those are Petri-dish conditions for psychosis—."

"Wait a moment," Benson interrupted. "I heard a high-pitched noise and started getting a headache the moment I touched the door to Samara's room—and I didn't know anything about these delusions or the mass hysteria."

That statement quieted everyone for a moment. "There are any number of normal explanations for that," Cragen offered. "There's a lot of medical equipment in a hospital. An electronic device nearby could be responsible for both the sound and the headache. Some sounds give me a headache, I know that much. Did it go away?"

"Yes. Like someone flipped a switch and turned it off."

"There you go. Someone working in another room turned off the equipment." Cragen concluded.

Munch returned to the table. "That was Children's Hospital. At about 3 AM, Anna Morgan tried to force her way into the psych ward. The nurse on duty called security, of course. When they arrived, Anna parted the hair on one of the guards with a table lamp. He needed five stitches. Anna is now at Belleview, so if you want to interview her, Doctor Huang, there's your chance."


	15. The Mother

George Huang regarded the woman who sat down across the table from him. Anna Morgan was under mild sedation and trying very hard to act normal, yet her mental state leaked out around the edges. Her clothes were misbuttoned and untidy, yet not a strand of her hair was out of place. Her hair might have been naturally auburn in her youth, but the shade she dyed it now was too dark and harsh for her sallow skin. Her mouth would not stop trembling, which ruined her calm façade.

"Hello, Anna. Thank you for agreeing to see me."

"You said you had news of Samara?" Her voice was desperate and hoarse, and her hands clutched greedily at the table's edge, scrabbling against the Formica.

"Yes. One of the orderlies at Eola injured her; that was why she was removed. She has three cracked ribs, but I'm sorry to have to tell you she has more serious health problems due to overmedication. She's a very sick child at the moment, Anna. Her kidneys are having trouble eliminating toxins from her system. She may yet need dialysis; she definitely needs a special diet and a rest from any but the mildest medications. I know you love your daughter, and I know you can understand that she needs to be in a hospital which understands the special needs children have." Anna did love Samara: a fundamental, tragic truth.

"But they wouldn't let me see her!"

Huang nodded. "That's true. Do you know what time it was when you tried to see her, Anna?"

"I—it was dark. Very dark. But it was bright inside the hospital. I waited, I waited for a very long time until they opened the ward doors to let in the girl who kept screaming."

Huang had read the report. Anna had waited until a new patient suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder had been brought in. Her foster parents and social worker had brought the terrified and howling girl to the psych ward, just as Dr. Weiss and Munch had brought Samara, only to have a wild-eyed madwoman ambush them at the doors. The girl, even more traumatized than before, was now under heavy sedation. Between that and the security guard whose head Anna had laid open, Children's Hospital was furious with Samara's mother.

"It was after three in the morning, Anna. I understand that you wanted to see Samara, but it wasn't an appropriate time, and you didn't behave appropriately. Do you understand?"

Anna breathed deeply. "I'm sorry. I just love her—I _need_ her so much." Anna began to cry, dry, hacking sobs that wrung her thin frame.

Huang nodded. "It must be difficult for you, and I appreciate that. It's difficult for Samara as well. She's in an entirely new environment, one where she's interacting with other children for what seems to be the first time. Is that correct, Anna? Has Samara never had a friend or any playmates at home on Moesko?"

"What, on the island? No, I mean, the locals, they're good people but they're not exactly the sort of friendships I want my daughter to have." Anna had straightened up and taken on the role of the person she must have been once: lady of the manor, Olympian show-jumper, daughter of privilege. "Most of them are just going to wind up on the fishing boats or in the processing plants. That's why I'm home-schooling her."

"I see. But peer interaction is an important part of socialization. Samara needs to learn how to get along with others."

"She'll have that when I think she's ready." Anna snapped. "Is she behaving herself there?"

"The duty nurse says she's been very quiet and cooperative." Although surprised to find Samara really didn't sleep, the psych ward staff were used to all sorts of aberrant behavior in children. The only incident the head nurse had thought strange enough to mention was that Samara knew her mother was there over half-an-hour before Anna made her move.

"Yes. She would be." The confident, if snobbish, woman was gone again, and a bitter, worn-out creature had taken her place. "But then Samara doesn't need to move a muscle or make a sound to cause trouble. They'll learn that soon enough."

"What do you mean, Anna?"

"You have such a gentle quiet way of asking questions, Doctor," Anna observed, "and you listen very nicely, too. Like there's nothing in the world more fascinating than what I have to say."

"At the moment, there isn't. Not to me."

Her trembly lips quirked a little. "You're nothing like Doctor Scott."

"He and I have taken very different paths in our profession, so it's not surprising. But you were going to tell me about how Samara causes trouble."

"Was I? Explaining Samara makes me sound less than sane. But then I'm not sane, am I? Not anymore."

"Defining someone as sane or insane is often unfair and arbitrary." Huang offered. "I prefer to ask questions like: is she happy? Can she function in everyday life? Is she a danger to herself or others? Beyond that, I believe an individual has the right to think, feel or believe whatever they want, regardless of what anyone else thinks."

"You're _very_ different from Dr. Scott. Samara—." Anna paused. "She wasn't even a year old when it started."

"When what started?" Huang prompted after a moment.

"The fear." She hissed the word. "Oh, I'd been having headaches and hearing a whining noise for ages, but you can always tell yourself those are normal. Then one day, when I was about to give her a bath. All of a sudden I was deathly afraid, for no reason, no reason at all. She was screaming, she was always screaming back then, I was used to it, but why should I be terrified like that? There was nothing to be afraid of, not in the room or the house or on the island, but I was shaking with fear.

"I shook so badly that I dropped her. The baby tub spilled, water went everywhere, and Samara hit the floor. She screamed even louder then. I tried to pick her up, but her arm—her arm had come out of its socket. Now I was afraid for a real reason. Naked as she was, I scooped her up and wrapped her in some towels, I got her to Doctor Graznick, and she put Samara's arm back in place. Then of course I had to go home and clean up, so by the time the day was over, I'd convinced myself it never happened. Until it happened again—and again.

"As she got bigger she grew stronger. She puts pictures in your head, of writhing, squirming things, dead things, rotting things. Richard, too—my husband. He sees them, but he can always escape to the stable and the horses. I can't. I'm stuck there in the house with her, all day, every day."

"I see." Huang said, very gently. "Why do you think Samara would do these things to you?"

"Isn't it obvious? To hurt me."

"Why would she want to hurt you?"

"Because—I don't know why! All I ever wanted was her, and after all the trying and the miscarriages, when the adoption agency called and said, 'We have a beautiful healthy baby girl. Would you like to meet her?'—Oh, God, I fell in love with her at first sight. She was pink like a rosebud, and those pretty blue eyes! When I finally had her, once we brought her home, she screamed and she cried all the time. She had colic. She had jaundice. She gushed diarrhea and threw up most of what I got into her. She was filthy, all the time, everywhere, and noisy. She stank and she never stopped screaming-and all my husband would say was, 'You got what you wanted. Now deal with it.'"

"Your husband didn't want children?"

"He did. As long as they were his—he really wanted a son. His son. He wouldn't stand for adopting a boy, though. A girl was different, because she would get married and change her name, of course. He wouldn't give his precious name to a boy who wasn't his flesh and blood. But I wanted a girl anyway, so it was all right."

"But it wasn't all right." Huang said. "Samara was a difficult child."

"Yes. From the very beginning. But I still loved her. I have _never_ not loved her."

"I believe you."

"Thank you." She sounded as though she were going to cry again.

"Anna, I've been reading Dr. Weiss' notes on Samara, and she reports—."

"Dr. Weiss? Who is she?"

"Samara's therapist."

"Dr. Scott is her therapist."

"No. Not anymore. If you look at it from a certain point of view, he never was. Dr. Weiss was providing play therapy and art therapy to Samara at night. She's now a therapist for Children's Services of Manhattan, and she's going to continue as Samara's therapist for the foreseeable future. Dr. Weiss reports that Samara has what we call ablutophobia, an irrational fear of bathing and bathtubs. In fact, she's afraid of any body of water deeper than an inch or two. Why is Samara afraid of taking baths, Anna?"

"Because—because of what happened that time." Anna tried.

"But she wasn't in the bath. She fell on the floor. She should be afraid of falling, not bathing."

"Samara likes stewing in her own filth. She always has. I have to physically force her into the bathtub."

"But Dr. Weiss writes that Samara is perfectly fine with taking showers as long as she takes them in a stall, not a tub. In fact, she likes them. She likes scented shower gels and soap. She even likes having her hair brushed afterward. Dr. Weiss thinks Samara would stay in there until the hot water ran out if she would let her. It's only baths that frighten her. Why is Samara afraid of taking a bath?"

"Dr. Weiss is giving Samara showers?" Anna seized on that.

"Dr. Weiss supervises while Samara washes herself and helps when she's needed. A seven-year-old needs supervision and help."

"Does Dr. Weiss make sure she brushes her teeth and washes her face?"

"I suppose—." Huang began, but Anna cut him off.

"So Dr. Weiss is raising my daughter? Is that what you're telling me? _I'm_ the one who should be supervising her. _I'm_ her mother. Not Dr. Weiss!"

"Anna, right now you're having trouble taking care of yourself, let alone Samara. Would you want your daughter's teeth to decay or for her skin to break out in rashes and sores just because you're too ill to help her?"

"No." Anna said after a pause, but she said it reluctantly.

"These are small issues compared to the others you and Samara are facing. Now, you said the first time you felt irrationally afraid was when you were about to bathe Samara as a baby. You believe she was causing your fear. What if you're right?" Huang worked within a patient's context when he had to.

"You mean you believe me?"

"What if she were causing your fear because she was projecting what she felt on to you? What if you were feeling her fear? What if all the horrible images you say she puts in your head are what's going on in her head? What if that's her way of communicating how horrible she feels?"

"No." Anna denied it. "No. It can't be that. No."

"Did something happen to Samara in a bathtub before that day? What would have made her so afraid, Anna?"

"No! You're wrong—."

"Anna, we already know how Samara came by those scars on her legs and buttocks, and it wasn't from insect bites. They were caused by a metal belt buckle. Someone beat Samara with the buckle end of a belt, hard enough to break the skin. Who did that, Anna?"

"No, it wasn't what you're thinking. I had to—."

He kept hammering at her. "Why is Samara afraid of taking a bath, Anna? Why is she afraid you're going to throw her down a well and leave her there to drown? I know about the baby mice and the crippled goat, Anna. Why did Samara _drown_ them? Why is she so afraid of water? What happened?"

"She was filthy, but she wouldn't shut up!" Anna finally broke. "She just wouldn't stop crying, and I couldn't take it anymore! I just wanted a moment of peace and quiet, just a few seconds."

"What did you do, Anna?"

"I pushed her underwater and held her there, with my hand over her face. She wouldn't have drowned! I didn't want to hurt her. I didn't hurt her! She was fine."

"No, Anna. She wasn't. She isn't. Was that the only time you held her underwater?"

"No, but it was because—because I had to get through to her. I had to make her understand what she was putting me through. The bathtub was the only thing that always worked. After a while she stopped reacting when I hit her. She'd just sit and stare at me, even while the blood was running down her legs. She wouldn't cry or scream. She just put on this stony face."

"That's called shock, Anna. That's what happens when someone hurts so bad they have to get away somehow, even if it's only inside themselves. It's good that you've told me this, Anna. Trust me. Before it was like going to the doctor with a broken bone and a cut on your finger and telling him only that your finger needs a bandage, because you're ashamed to admit you broke your leg. You can't get better that way. Now you have a chance."


	16. The Father

"Where's this Detective Munch?" A male voice rang out across the squad room. "Somebody find him for me. I'm Richard Morgan, and he's going to answer to me about what he did to my wife." All the heads which had turned to look at the intruder now pivoted as one to look at the hapless detective.

"Mr. Morgan." John Munch pushed back his chair and stood, catching his first glimpse of Anna's husband and Samara's father. As Doctor Jude had said, he was big and beefy with a lot of wild white hair. Richard Morgan was also…

Munch wanted to let out a whoop of laughter, because Richard Morgan was dressed _exactly_ like the President had the last time he cleared brush. _Exactly_. The hat, the work gloves, the boots, the pants—only the color of the wool plaid jacket was different.

John Munch felt about the government the same way some atheists felt about God: it was precisely because he didn't believe in it that he studied it more intently and knew more about it than a lot of people who did. He knew the only time the President cleared brush was when there were a lot of photographers and reporters present, so he could prove to America and the People what a down-home kind of guy he was, somebody just like them. An underpaid grounds keeping staff took care of the landscaping all the other 364 days of the year.

He stifled the laugh before it left his throat, because Munch was intelligent and perceptive. He realized that Richard Morgan wasn't deliberately dressing like the President. The President was deliberately dressing to look like Richard Morgan, a down-home kind of man who worked outdoors with his hands every day. Richard Morgan was the real thing; the President was only an imitator.

That didn't mean Richard Morgan wasn't a neglectful, unfeeling, sexist asshole, however. "I'm Detective Munch. Would you like to launch into your angry tirade out here, or somewhere in private?"

"I want you to tell me why my wife was hauled off to Belleview in the middle of the night. I want you to tell me by what authority you overrode my decision about where—."

"Obviously you prefer the public option, but I have to work with these people. This way to the interview room, please."

The moment the door was closed, the horse breeder turned on Munch. "My wife is in Belleview because of you." Morgan accused, stabbing a finger at the detective.

"No, Mr. Morgan. Your wife's in Belleview because she snuck into Children's Hospital and tried to force her way into the psychiatric ward in the middle of the night. Have a seat. By the way, _you're welcome_." Munch took a chair and glowered at the heavier Morgan.

"Welcome? Welcome for what?" Standing while Munch sat put Morgan in the position of a child in the principal's office, a naughty overgrown child about to be disciplined. That was fine as far as Munch was concerned.

"For saving your daughter's life."

"I don't have a daughter." Morgan must have felt the disadvantage their relative positions put him in. He ripped the other chair out from under the table and sat.

"Your wife's daughter, then."

"That creature is no kin to either of us."

"I see. 'That creature' has a name. Sam-ah-rah. Okay, I learned from reading the file that she's adopted, but your name and your wife's are on the birth certificate, which means legally she is just as much your daughter as if she was born that way. That doesn't give you a sense of responsibility for her?"

Richard Morgan crossed his arms over his chest. "I feed her. I clothe her. I house her. I see to it she gets medical attention. What more am I supposed to do?"

"How about _smiling_ when you see her? How about giving her a hug now and then?" Munch retorted, remembering Samara's pitiful statement about what fathers did on TV. "How about teaching her to ride a bike?" Giving Morgan no chance to reply, he abruptly switched tactics. "Does Samara need a _lot_ of medical attention, Mr. Morgan?"

Morgan's face darkened ominously while Munch rapid-fired questions at him, but the last one derailed him. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Besides the three cracked ribs she got at Eola, Children's Hospital found five old, healed fractures, barbed wire scars down one inner arm, 'sock' burns on her feet caused by immersion in hot or corrosive liquid, a curling iron burn on her neck, and twenty-three scars caused by a metal belt buckle. Now you can say what you like about getting kicked by a horse or falling into a barbed-wire fence, but those twenty-three scars could not _possibly_ have been caused by accident. That's a lot for one little girl to have suffered. Can you tell me how Samara came by those injuries, Mr. Morgan?"

"That's none of your business!"

Munch shouted him down. "Wrong! I'm the _police_. It _is_ my business! Now, we have the hospital report. We have the victim's statement. We have a psychiatrist's professional opinion. All I want to know is, was it just your wife who was whaling the tar out of Samara or were you beating her too?"

Morgan drew his arm back and swung, but midway through he changed direction, pounding his fist against the table rather than into the detective's face. "I never laid a hand on her. My wife wanted her. She got her. Whatever happened after that had nothing to do with me."

"Wrong again, you unmitigated son-of-a-bitch. That was your wife who was disintegrating in front of your eyes, and you let it happen. She couldn't cope. You knew what was going on. You just didn't care as long as dinner was ready when you wanted it. Admit it!"

Morgan was breathing heavily. He shook his head. "You don't know a thing about it."

"Is this the part where you start telling me about her psychic powers, too?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Morgan lied.

"Really? That's strange, because your wife says you know all about it." Munch guessed, not knowing that across Manhattan, Huang was proving him correct.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Morgan repeated.

"Right. Let me see if I can explain this to you another way. What do you think is going to happen now, Mr. Morgan?"

"Eola didn't do any good, so I'm going to take my wife and the girl home. I shouldn't have brought them here in the first place."

"No. That's not going to happen. Let me tell you why. You see, when your wife tried to force her way into the psych ward in the middle of the night, she got violent. She assaulted a nurse, the father of another patient, and two security guards before she was subdued. One of the guards has five stitches in his head because she hit him with a brass table lamp and cut his scalp open.

"The only reason she isn't in our lock-up right now is because she is known to be mental patient. That's four counts of assault, one of them aggravated. She's going to have to appear in court to answer for that. If she's well enough to go home, then she's well enough to stand trial and, if convicted, go to prison. If she's 'not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect', then she's going to go to a mental institution of the judge's choice. She won't be going home with you for a long time. Months, at least. What kind of health care facilities do you have on that Moesko Island?"

"What?"

"Do they have a kidney dialysis machine? Do they have speech therapists, physical therapists who can help a brain damaged child learn how to speak and walk properly again?"

"No. What are you talking about?"

"You never asked how your daughter was doing. There's more wrong with Samara than just cracked ribs and the effects of long term physical abuse. She was overmedicated at Eola. You won't be taking her home any time soon, either, but when you do, she'll need a lot of care. She'll probably have to go to therapists three times a week or more, then there's the special diet, the exercises, the home visits from the social worker… The good news is, she'll be going home sooner than your wife. That is, unless…" He let the sentence hang there in the air, waiting for Morgan's response.

"Unless what?" The breeder asked.

"Unless Children's Services decides she'd be better off staying in the system. Then all the burden, all the expense, all the trouble are ours, not yours."

"So that's how it is, is it." Morgan said, his mouth a straight, hard line. "What would make them decide she would be better off?"

"Just as an example, if you were to admit you knew your wife was abusing Samara, but you didn't do anything to stop it. If you were an unfit parent, they wouldn't send her home with you."

"I see. They'll want to interview me, won't they? To find out what kind of father I am?" A speculative light entered Richard Morgan's eye, and he tapped his mouth thoughtfully.

"Yes. When they do, Mr. Morgan—just be yourself. That'll be enough." Munch said, veiling his disgust.


	17. The Chance Meeting

It wasn't that Jude was looking for him, hoping or expecting to see him; it just happened. She came up out of the subway with her bags, she'd crossed the street, and half way up the block toward Children's Hospital, a man got out of a double-parked car. As he straightened up, she recognized him. _That's Detective Munch_.

No thinking about it, no wondering if that tall, lanky man in the dark clothes could be him. Just an instant identification. _How can I know that's him? I just met him yesterday_. That was her rational self thinking, while the bottom of her stomach seemed to fall out. In two long strides the man reached the sidewalk, glancing around to orient himself, and yes, it was Detective Munch. She was right, and a stab of irrational joy lifted her heart, followed swiftly by a profound sadness and nauseating dread. _Have I fallen in love with him?_

_Yes, and nothing is ever going to come of it_. The last time she had felt this hopeless, desolate and alone was when she heard, 'Ms. Weiss, I'm so sorry. You've tested positive…' Yes, the antiretroviral drugs could keep AIDS at bay indefinitely. She looked and felt healthy. Yes, that meant HIV wasn't an automatic death sentence anymore.

It was a life sentence instead.

_If I walk around the block, maybe we'll miss each other. No, that's ridiculous, I'm at least twenty years too old to act like that_. _Besides, he's obviously on his way to Children's too_.

Her feet, traitors that they were, continued to carry her forward, and now it was too late. He spotted her, waved, and called out, "Dr. Weiss!"

If Jude had been twenty or even ten years younger, she could not have done what she did, which was to smile naturally when she caught up with him, as if he were just a friendly acquaintance. "Detective Munch. I didn't expect to run into you again so soon. What brings you here?"

"I'm delivering paperwork." He tapped the spot over his inner jacket pocket. "I also wanted to drop a word or two in Samara's new case worker's ear. You?"

"Thanks to Doctor-slash-agent Huang, I'm now the newest Manhattan Children's Services Mental Health Support. Samara is first on my list of patients." They fell into step beside each other as if they had walked together dozens of times before. "I'm wondering exactly how he made that happen."

"Best not to inquire, I think," Munch offered. "Hey, you seem to be overburdened there. Can I carry that for you?"

"Oh—thank you. I went shopping for Samara." Jude let him take the bags, and wiggled her fingers. The plastic handles had left red and white grooves in her flesh.

"Please tell me you got anything but white." He winced. "I helped Detective Benson fold her stuff. That kid would get lost in a blizzard."

"Does underwear count?"

"No."

"Then I think you'd approve." She smiled at him again. _Let him not see what it costs me to act so casual_. "You know, I'm going to be paid more money for fewer scheduled hours and I'm going to have an office. It's a remodeled broom closet, but it's an office. I'll hardly know what to do with myself."

"You're not letting your license go, are you?" he asked.

"No, I called the review board and my lawyer. The wheels are in motion."

"Good. Mr. Morgan paid a call on me this morning." Munch commented.

Reading his face, she saw wry disgust. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. As a result, I made sure Samara won't be going home with him."

He explained, and she listened to him as though no one else existed. It was an ordinary, crowded Manhattan street like any other, dirty and noisy, but she did not notice or care. _He's too thin. His ears stick out_, she thought, trying to look for flaws. _If I look at him feature by feature, he isn't good-looking at all. Except that I can't remember when I was last so attracted to a man_.

"I've been reading Samara's medical records." he continued, "and apart from discovering Dr. Scott was misnamed—he really should have been named Mengele—I have a question about her history."

"You read about how he stuck a probe up under her fingernail to test if she truly was insensitive to pain," she stated.

"How'd you guess?—Was 'Samara' her original name, or did the Morgans give it to her?"

"I don't know. What's significant about it?" she asked.

"I may know why she doesn't feel pain. 'Samara' comes from the Hebrew 'Shamar-ha'. It means 'Guarded by God.'"

"Then I think God needs to get on the ball." Jude commented.

He snorted at that sally. "Good one. As the 16th precinct's resident expert on all things Judaic, I've read up on some of the rarer genetic conditions among the Jewish population."

"Do you get paid extra for your expertise?" She widened her eyes as she asked the question.

"No, but certain co-workers are very grateful I can cover for them on various Christian holidays. My point being, there's a disease that's even rarer than Tay-Sachs among the Ashkenazi. It's called 'Congenital Indifference to Pain with Anhydrosis', or CIPA for short. Those who suffer from it can't feel pain, hot or cold, and they can't perspire. Usually they die young, before age thirty. I was wondering if Samara's been screened for it."

She stared at him for a moment, nearly walking into a parking meter. "You really are well read. I don't believe there's been more than thirty cases diagnosed in the United States since the condition was identified. I had to do a lot of research to find anything about it in the medical literature."

He shrugged modestly. "It's of interest to me. Is that what's wrong with her?"

"No, as it happens." she told him. "For one thing, she does perspire, she can feel hot and cold, and she doesn't have the injury pattern that goes with congenital indifference. She'd have broken toes, injuries to her corneas and eyes, and she would probably have bitten off the tip of her tongue. For that matter, I believe her so-called indifference to pain is actually learned helplessness." They reached the street corner, and the traffic was against them, so they had to stop and wait for the light to change.

"Now I need an explanation."

"Animal behaviorists have conducted experiments on dogs by putting them into kennels with electrified floors. The current flowing through them is strong enough to hurt but not to injure, and the switch is programmed to operate randomly. At first, the dogs react just the way you'd expect—they jump, they yelp, snarl and growl. But the longer they're subjected to the shocks, the less they react, because they learn they have no control, no power to change their situation. Eventually they don't even flinch when the current goes on. They just lie there, seemingly indifferent to the pain. I believe Samara is in the same state as those dogs. She's beyond the point where she can cry or flinch in torment."

"And people wonder why I'm a cynic." the detective commented. The light changed, and they crossed.

"Plus she reacts like any other little girl when I 'ouch' her hair." Jude added.

"When you _what_?"

"You've never heard anyone use that phrase? You must not have sisters." she concluded.

"You're right. I don't."

She twiddled a lock of her hair in her fingers. " 'Ouching' a little girl's hair means brushing out the tangles. No matter how careful the person doing the brushing is—."

"—she still goes 'Ouch.' Do you mind if I fall in love with you?" Detective Munch tossed the question in as casually as if he were asking what she took in her coffee.

"What?" She stopped and stood still in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Don't worry. You don't have to return it. If I required the object of my affections to return the favor, I would only have gotten married once—well, maybe twice. Not to mention I would have had a lot fewer girlfriends. Falling in love is just something that happens to me now and then, kind of like catching a cold. It's been a while since I last came down with this particular fever. I think I'm overdue."

"Why me?"

"Why not you? You're intelligent, funny, well-read, you're beautiful, you know how to flirt—."

"I'm not beautiful!" No false modesty there; she knew her good points—her blue eyes and her full, wide mouth—but she also knew her bad ones—soft, rounded features that made her look a little childlike even at her age.

"You put pretty much everything you ever worked for on the line to do the right thing. I don't see how anyone could get more beautiful than that."

She said nothing for a moment, just looking at him. "Do you snore like a buzz saw or something?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

"Just trying to figure out what your fatal flaw is. No wonder you've been married four times…"


	18. The Case Files

Trying to get through her paperwork that day was worse than middle-school study hall. Huang was reading, and tapping on the table with his pen. Tap-tap. Tappity-tap. Staccato bursts, a wordless Morse code which spelled out nervousness. Olivia glanced at him; he was reading the Samara Morgan file, and when he wasn't tapping he was making notes and calculations with it on a separate sheet of paper.

Elliot was stealing looks at her, his indirect summer-sky gaze warming her like a sip of really good brandy. It burned just a little as it spread to her head and…other places. Which made her uncomfortable, so she cleared her throat and said, "George, I'm sorry, but your tapping—it's kind of distracting."

Which it was, but not as much as Elliot's intermittent stares. She couldn't tell Elliot to stop looking at her because as long as neither of them admitted the looking was going on, they were safe. They didn't have to talk about he could never leave his wife and his family, and how she could never settle for an affair on the side. But she could tell Huang to lay off the rat-a-tat-tatter.

"Oh. Sorry." Huang blinked and turned a page. About forty-five seconds later, he was tapping again.

"Is something bothering you?" she inquired.

"No. Yes." he contradicted himself.

"Which is it?" Olivia asked.

"It's a cliché. Adding two and two together and getting five," he replied, "only it's backward. I know the answer is five, but all I can find are two and two. Where is the one? Where did it come from? What is it?"

Elliot and Olivia exchanged another glance, this of the communicative kind rather than the frustrated romantic longing variety. "Are you feeling all right?" Elliot asked. "You don't sound like yourself."

"Samara Morgan is alive," the FBI profiler went on, as if Elliot hadn't spoken. "and she should be dead. What am I not seeing?"

"What do you mean?" Olivia ventured when Huang began tapping his pen in double time.

"I thought the overmedication only began recently." he said distantly, "but it didn't. Even if she didn't die of a simple overdose or a lethal drug interaction, her blood toxins would have built up to a point where it wouldn't just be her kidneys that were failing—it would be her brain, her heart, her liver—everything. Given the test results from yesterday, I have no reason to believe the medication record has been falsified—but if it hasn't, she shouldn't be alive."

Elliot shrugged. "Hey, there are some people who get the all weird side effects from every medicine they take, the ones that only .001 percent of the population are supposed to get. Plus, sometimes meds have the opposite effect from what they're supposed to. That's why they give Ritalin to hyper kids. It sends the normal ones hyper, and the hyper ones normal. Maybe she just has a really high tolerance for medication."

"No one has a tolerance high enough for the dosages she was taking. Samara has a sleep disorder. She either can't or won't sleep. To combat that, in her third week at Eola, Dr. Scott prescribed two hundred milligrams of Ambien. The normal dose of Ambian for an adult with insomnia is _ten_ milligrams. Two hundred milligrams should have put Samara to sleep forever. She was fully conscious again only two and a half hours later." Huang stated.

"Jeez." Stabler swore. "He really was trying to kill her."

"It gets stranger." Huang looked from one of them to the other. "The next night, the same dosage barely made her groggy. That pattern repeats itself. Any medication or combination of medications rapidly ceased to have any effect on her."

Olivia leaned forward. "I'll bet I know what happened. That chart shows who gave Samara her medicine, right?"

"Yes." Huang stated, nodding.

"If Dr. Jude's one of the names, that's your answer. I don't know her that well, but I know what I would do in her situation, when I knew the medicine prescribed for a child was dangerous and unnecessary. I'd flush the pills down the toilet and squirt the syringes out in the sink. You can take Dr. Jude's doses out of your calculations. I'd bet money on it."

Huang was already skimming through the charts. "I never thought of that. It's practically unthinkable for a resident to go against a superior's orders."

"Yeah, but this is the life of a child we're talking about here." Elliot added. "The way the staff there are spooked about her, what do you want to bet there have been a lot of times some nurse said, 'I don't want to go in there. She gives me the creeps.', and Dr. Weiss said something like, 'That's okay, I'll give her the meds, and you can put your name down like normal. I won't tell.'—and then she flushes some more pills."

"No," Huang said, "that wouldn't fit her psychological profile. She's conscientious, but she's careful too. She might throw out the medicine, but she wouldn't ask or encourage someone else to lie for her—both to keep them out of trouble and because she wouldn't trust them. You're right, Olivia. Dr. Weiss administered Samara's meds at least a quarter of the time, far more often than anyone else…but even reducing the amount she was taking by twenty-five percent doesn't explain why Samara is showing so few side effects or why she's alive. That isn't the only mystery concerning Samara's medications."

"What else is there?" Elliot asked.

"Dr. Scott's notes on Samara's condition and why he found it necessary to medicate her so heavily are cryptic at best. 'Heavy sedation at all times indicated for staff safety'—but he never explains why. Nor are there any reports of violence against the staff in her chart."

"That makes it sound as though he were aware of the hysteria going on around the hospital, but instead of calling a meeting and telling everyone 'This is the twenty-first century, so pull yourselves together,' he's taking it seriously." Olivia reasoned out loud. "But didn't Dr. Jude say Dr. Scott didn't believe the rumors? I'm sure I saw that in Munch's notes."

"Uh-uh." Elliot flipped through the papers. "She says she '_won't_ say he believes it, too, but he hasn't done anything to counteract it.' That's not the same thing. Dr. Weiss snuck a half-lie in on us. I wonder if she's Catholic? A statement like that sounds like Jesuitical reasoning. And I'll tell you what else it makes me wonder. It makes me wonder what other tricks she might have pulled. Didn't you say she had case notes on Samara, Doc? What are they like?"

"Far more complete than Dr. Scott's, but Scott only saw Samara a total of five hours a week, an hour a day, Monday through Friday. Dr. Weiss put in eighty hours a week on the fifth floor, mostly nights and weekends. When she didn't have duties elsewhere, she went in and spent the time with Samara, up to six hours on a shift." Huang told them. "Before you think critically of her for that, let me point out that other than Dr. Scott, there was only one staff member willing to spend more than fifteen minutes in the same room as Samara. Dr. Weiss. The rest of the time, Samara was locked in her room alone."

"You didn't see that room, Elliot." Olivia turned her melting eyes on him. "It was empty. There was nothing in it to play with or anything to do. Not even a window to look out at the sky. Just four bare walls. It has to be one of the loneliest places I've ever seen."

"Hmm." Elliot snorted. "So what kind of things does Dr. Weiss say about Samara in her notes?"

"Let me see. 'Samara's oppositional tendencies can be counteracted by giving her choices rather than orders. Telling her she _has_ to eat breakfast, as several of the nursing staff do, results in a rejection of any and all food, not to mention a mess on the floor, walls and ceiling. However, when _offered_ a choice between two healthy options at mealtime, she willingly cooperates. Giving her a measure of control over her life, however slight, empowers Samara's ability to control her behavior. Note: Being offered more than two choices overstresses her, redoubling her aforementioned oppositional tendencies. Two is enough.'"

Elliot digested that for a moment, then protested, "But that's just good parenting!"

"Which is what Samara has never had until now." Huang pointed out.

"But what does she have to say about the hysteria?" Elliot asked.

"Nothing. But these are her case notes on _Samara_. Nothing else would be appropriate."

"Dr. Jude isn't the bad guy here, Elliot. Everything she's done has been to help Samara." Olivia placated him.

He shook his head. "Nobody makes such careful statements where everything they say is true without giving away the facts unless they're hiding something behind it."

"Well, the person who's really hiding something is Dr. Scott." Huang interjected. "All of his cryptic notes and the flagrant overmedication begins after session SM-0015, which took place in the third week of Samara's stay in Eola."

"Too bad we can't go back in time and be a fly on the wall for that one." Stabler commented, rubbing his neck.

Olivia bent and rummaged around in a box under the table by her feet. "Actually, we can." she informed them, holding up a videotape marked SM-0015.


	19. The Chance Meeting: Part 2

"However, you haven't answered my question. Do you mind if I fall in love with you?" Munch looked at the woman walking next to him, and liked what he saw. When she was relaxed and enjoying herself, her eyes smiled even when her mouth didn't, and her mouth itself was generous and sensual. They reached the hospital gates and started up the walkway which led past the playground. Hospitalized or not, children were still children and needed fresh air and exercise.

"Do I mind." she repeated. "Uh, well, it's up to you, but for your own sake, you might want to hold out for someone with… fewer issues."

"I don't see why. I never have before. You see, I'm naturally attracted to women who prove to be trouble, and a trained psychiatrist who can see straight to the depths of my grimy and abyssal soul—it's enough to start my heart racing just thinking about the possibilities."

She laughed. "I'm starting to worry about you. Anyway, I don't psychoanalyze people unless I'm getting paid for it, and even if I did, the words I would use to describe you would be different."

"How so?"

"Tarnished, rather than grimy. Tarnished sterling. And unexpected depths, rather than abyssal." Suddenly their playful banter was neither playful nor banter. Jude added, "You were very good with Samara yesterday. Good with her and good to her."

"Ah." he fumbled for words. "Just doing my job. I mean, any cop will tell you kids…If I were to get Samara a little something, you know, like a stuffed animal, what would you suggest?"

Jude smiled, which didn't help him any because she had an amazing smile with dimples and pretty teeth. _I __**like**__ her_, he realized. _I don't want to date her just because I think she's hot, although of course that's a component, but because I like her. How often has that happened over the course of what, for lack of a better word, has to be called my love life_?

"That's very nice of you. Actually, I wouldn't recommend a stuffed animal or a doll because she'd probably take her anger out on it. Art supplies, like a paintbox or maybe a paperback book. She'd like those. But please, make it something small and don't take it personally if she doesn't react like you think she should."

"Okay. Art supplies or a book. What kind of reading level is she at? Dr. Seuss or War and Peace?"

There went the dimples again. "Definitely War and Peace, but only if it's an illustrated edition. Samara's very proud that she's reading chapter books instead of picture books now. Not Harry Potter, because Anna's one of those Harry-Potter-promotes-witchcraft-and-Satanism people, but she hasn't read The Golden Compass or The Series of Unfortunate Events yet. Personally, I think Lemony Snicket's style is better than Rowling's, but if I say that too loudly, her fans will rise up and tear me limb from limb."

"Your secret is safe with me. Lemony Snicket—his books are morbid but funny, right?" They had reached the hospital doors.

"That's right. I'm trying to cultivate Samara's sense of humor. At the moment, she doesn't have one, but then there hasn't been even a scrap of fun in her life."

Behind them, a male voice intoned, " 'Sometimes a crumb falls from the table of joy Sometimes a bone is flung.'" It was Fin, and the words were Langston Hughes' poignant and immortal poem 'Luck'.

Jude took up the next line with him. " 'To some people, love is given. To others,'"

Munch finished it with them. " '—only heaven.'"

"Except that Samara doesn't even hope for heaven. She believes God will forget about her too, once she's down in the well." The doors were automatic; the three of them entered and headed for the elevators. For once, there was one waiting. They went inside and Munch pressed the button for the sixth floor.

"She's got ideas about the afterlife, too?" Fin asked. "Those people done a number on her head. What's she think's gonna happen to her?"

"That's where it gets confusing." Jude said. "and in a weird way, funny. Samara sees herself as the first ghost with internet access and a built-in cell phone."

"It doesn't sound as though there's anything wrong with her imagination." Munch observed.

"Nah, just everything else." Fin concluded. "Hey, Doc. Did he tell you he made me stop the car and let him out when he saw you come up outta the subway?"

"Really?" she asked.

"I wanted to stretch my legs." Munch claimed.

"Yeah, right." Fin snorted. "How's your tolerance for conspiracy theories? Cause you're gonna need a high one once he gets going."

"Fin!" Munch warned. "I usually don't bring them up for the first couple of weeks." he explained.

"And look where that gets you. I'm just cuttin' through all the bullshit for you."

"If I want the help, I'll ask for it. Ignore him." Munch advised her.

"Has he ever mentioned any theories about how it wasn't Richard III who killed the princes in the tower or who wrote the casket letters since it couldn't have been Mary, Queen of Scots?" Jude asked, looking concerned.

"Say what?" Fin replied. "Oh, right. Your ex was into the medieval-Ren faire thing."

"No," Munch was quick to assure her. "Strictly twentieth and twenty-first century, that's me."

"Oh, good. It'll be refreshing to hear about something where I don't have to read three books just for background information."

"I take it your divorce was a mixed blessing." Munch raised an eyebrow at her.

"I'd have to know you a bit better before I go into detail about it, but yes. As a result I've gone sour on an entire era. I still can't hear the word 'prithee' without wincing."

"Good thing it doesn't often come up in every day conversation, then. Listen, Dr. Weiss—."

"Jude." she told him.

"Jude. Are you doing anything Thursday after work?"

"Man, why do I have to be here witnessin' this?" Fin complained to the universe at large. The elevator doors opened and they got out.

* * *

A/N: A little bit short this time. Overthemoon, I sent you a review reply asking you a question, but ff . net might not have sent it, because a lot of their e-mails were delayed this weekend. Did you get it?


	20. The Videotape

Cregan paused as they were getting set up. "What's the video?" he asked, curious.

"One of Samara's sessions with Dr. Scott." Elliot explained. "Apparently all the trouble started after this."

"There has to be something more on this tape than just Samara wandering around her room." Olivia protested.

"It's observation footage of her insomnia." Huang tapped the fast forward button.

"That's the tape Dr. Weiss brought along with her yesterday." Cregan recalled, picking up the sleeve. "Yes. I remember seeing it in her hand. The 'SM' had me thinking it was going to be an S-&-M video."

" 'Dr. Weiss.'" Elliot repeated. "Captain, did anything strike you as suspicious about her story?"

"Suspicious how?" his superior asked.

"The wording she used—," Elliot explained, but stopped when he saw Cregan shaking his head. "What? You know something I don't?"

"Yes. I was watching from behind the mirror with ADA Cabot. Notes only tell half the story; the way someone says something can convey as much if not more than what they say. For example, if I ask why a member of my unit left early, and the answer is 'He went home sick', I can tell immediately whether he left because of food poisoning, to go to a baseball game, or to follow up on something he was ordered to drop. It's all in the delivery. Can't you tell if your kids have done their homework or not from how they answer?"

"So what meaning did you get from Dr. Weiss saying. 'I won't say he believes it too, but he hasn't done anything to counteract it.'?" Elliot challenged him.

"That Scott was as spooked as everybody else, but because of his education and position, he wouldn't admit it. That's what makes conversation interesting, the subtext."

The detective shook his head. "I dunno, Captain. My gut tells me she's hiding something."

"I have a great deal of respect for your gut, Elliot, but I would be very surprised to find out that Dr. Weiss has anything criminal to hide."

"We're ready here." Olivia announced. "All cued up."

"Let's see it." Cregan ordered. "I'd like to know how this doctor-patient relationship could go so sour."

Huang pressed play.

Test patterns flashed across the screen. Then a close up of Samara sitting in a chair. Someone's hands attached electrodes to her face, her hands, inside her blouse, and then strapped her in place hand and foot with thick leather bands.

"What are they doing to her?" asked Elliot. "That looks like an electric chair."

"It's an EKG machine, an old one." Huang explained. "At least thirty years old, probably more."

Now the television showed Samara at a distance in a room with glacial walls. No more of her face than the tip of her nose showed; everything else was hidden by her thick black hair. She sat slumped in the chair, her body language already spelling withdrawal and anger.

Up close in the forefront was a table with a laptop, a water bottle, an ashtray with that cliché of the psychiatric profession, a pipe, and a file folder. Scott came into the frame and sat down, scooting his chair forward until only his hands and forearms showed.

The psychiatrist spoke. "So what is it that's keeping you awake, Samara? You must sleep sometime."

Samara didn't reply. From the tilt of her head, she was staring at her feet.

"Samara? Let's talk about the pictures." He picked up the folder and paged through some several X-rays. "Samara? How did you make these pictures?" His tone was confrontational.

She stirred. "I don't make them. I see them, and then they just are."

"I need you to start telling me the truth, Samara." Scott already sounded angry.

"He's not doing it right." Olivia commented. "He won't get anything out of her—and she won't get anything out of this session."

"Can I see my mommy?" She sounded as though she were about to cry.

"No, Samara. Not until we understand what's wrong with you." He spoke to her as if she were a much younger child, faking an affectionate tone as he did so.

"I love my mommy."

"Yes, you do. But you don't want to hurt her any more, now do you? You don't want to hurt anyone." At that, Huang made a scoffing noise and shifted in his chair.

"But I do. And I'm sorry. It won't stop."

"Well, then," said the doctor, in tones sweet enough to bring on diabetic shock. "that's why you're here. So I can help you make it stop."

"He's going to leave me here." Samara stated, bleakly.

"Who?"

"Daddy.," was her reply.

"They just want to help you."

"Not Daddy."

"Your daddy loves you." Scott sing-songed.

"Daddy loves the horses. He wants me to go away."

"No, he doesn't." Scott insisted.

"But _he_ doesn't know." Defiance steeled her voice.

"He doesn't know what, Samara?"

"_Everyone_ will suffer." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut like January wind.

Olivia straightened up and shivered at that. "This is why I was so freaked yesterday when I met her."

"Now you know you don't mean that, Samara. Stop pretending."

"_Yes_, I _do_." Her anger was losing its chill and moving rapidly up the thermometer. "And I'm _not_ pretending."

" Then you should be ashamed of yourself for having such bad thoughts."

"But you have bad thoughts, too. Right now you want to hurt me." Samara told him.

"Lucky guess." Cregan snorted.

"That is not true!"

"Yes, it is." Samara refuted.

" Little girls shouldn't—Let's get back to the pictures. Who helped you with them?"

"Nobody helped me."

"Well, there's no way you could have pulled them out of thin air, so someone must have made them beforehand and switched the plates. Who was it? Your mother? Yes, that's it. To lend credence to her story."

"Nobody helped me. Stop yelling at me!"

"Then prove it! Do it again. You can't, can you?"

Strobe flash, unbearably bright light. The screen showed a well in a clearing, all in black and white. A buzz heightened to a whine, then fractured into a rattle.

Blink. A highway, still black and white, but with the brightness and short shadows of noon. A car roared into view, the image swooping like a bird into the interior through an open window.

"Isn't that Scott?" Cregan asked. The psychiatrist was driving. No one else was in the car.

Blink. A ladder hung in space, leaning against nothing, supported by nothing.

Blink again: a close-up of Scott's face and hands. His eyes swam in his head, out of synch with each other, and his mouth hung open, slack. His hands rested on the wheel rather than controlling it.

Blink. An index finger rested on a sharp probe, the pad indented by the pressure.

Another blink. A three-legged goat limped out of a barn.

Blink. Scott's car, seen from the road, accelerating. Other drivers swerved to avoid it.

Blink. The probe pierced the finger, red blood bubbling at the puncture and trickling down the shaft as the point cruelly split the fingernail.

Blink. Again, Scott's face seen at close range, in profile. Ahead of the car, the road curved but the car's trajectory did not.

Blink. The ladder fell and crashed into the ground.

Blink. Consciousness flooded back into Scott's face—too late. His features writhed as he fought the wheel. His mouth stretched in a soundless scream as the unnatural squeal reached a shrieking peak. The car smashed into the unforgiving concrete pillar of an over pass.

Blink. A dead horse lying on a beach. A fly crawled over the surface of its glazed eye.

Blink. The steering column of the car protruded from Scott's back. Not much of his face was left; the windshield sparkled, bloody diamonds strewn by a profligate king.

Blink. A ring of light, disappearing like a total eclipse of the sun.

Then Samara was once again on screen, back in the icy room. "—already did. Watch the video."

Scott pushed out his chair, and his face grew to monstrous size as he turned to the camera. "Oh, come on." His hand reached out and went out of sight. Then the screen went black.


	21. The Chance Meeting: Part 3

_I must be hyperventilating. I feel light headed._ Jude thought. _Wonder if he has any ideas about what happens to anyone who provably has telepathy or other powers?_

Just as she was about to answer Munch, Detective Tutuola said, with considerable surprise, "What are you doing here?"

Samara stood right outside the elevators. _Oh, no. How am I going to explain she was astral-wandering?—_ Jude braced herself for the revelation.

—but Samara astonished her. "I got bored." she explained, scratching her elbow. "And you didn't say I couldn't."

Astral projections could not speak and never scratched. "That argument hasn't worked for any child since mastodons roamed the Earth." Jude scolded, concealing her relief. "If I were to tell you all the things you shouldn't do, you'd be forty by the time I finished and a lot of them would be out of date."

"How did you get here?" Munch asked, his question for Jude forgotten. "I would have thought their security was better than this."

"Are you mad at me now?" Samara shrank back against the wall.

"Mad? No, I'm not mad at you, Princess. I'm concerned that the people here aren't looking after you right. Come here." Putting down the bags he had been carrying for Jude, he stepped forward and carefully scooped Samara up. "Fin, can you get those bags?"

"Why are you picking me up?" Samara went rigid, recoiling from the unfamiliar contact.

"So I can show off in front of her." He nodded at Jude and led the way down the hall to the Psychiatric Ward. Jude had to laugh a little at that.

"Oh." Samara replied, her voice revealing how foreign the concept was to her.

"How did you get out of a locked ward, Princess, if I may ask?" Munch regarded Samara at extreme close up.

"Samara—." Jude tried to put a warning in her voice, but the child either didn't catch it or didn't care.

"I made them not see me, and then I waited until somebody left. I can't open locks."

"That's a relief." Munch pressed the intercom button with his elbow. "Detectives Munch and Tutuola, Doctor Weiss, and a little lamb you let go astray."

"Hello—Samara!" The nurse on door duty was shocked. The door buzzer sounded immediately, and the woman burst out. "How did she—I was watching the monitors closely, and I'll swear she never got past me. I know I didn't buzz her out." She took Samara from Munch, checking her over visually, and carried her back inside the ward.

They followed the nurse. "Cameras are even easier to make not see me than people." Samara informed them over the nurse's shoulder. "I have to wait till people aren't paying attention. Cameras don't pay attention, and they always look in the same places."

"I did warn Simone that Samara needs a lot of attention." Jude put in.

"It's the quiet ones you got to watch out for." Fin contributed. "Lookin' at your setup here, I can see you got holes in your surveillance area. You aren't getting' 360º coverage. That's how she got by. All she had to do was hug the walls in some places, crawl in others." He told Samara directly, "Good eyes. You got a future with th' CIA. But that don't mean you should be wanderin' around the hospital on your own. Don't let us catch you doin' that again."

"Okay. I won't let you catch me again." Samara said, deadpan, but there might have been a glint of humor in it.

"You sure sound better today." Munch commented. Indeed, the slurring and halting in her speech were reduced. "How are you feeling, Princess?"

"Bored."

"She was supposed to be in the schoolroom." the nurse scolded, taking a right into that room. "And this is it. Tanya, is everything all right in here? The detectives found Samara out roaming the halls." She set Samara on her feet.

The room was full of children doing their lessons under the supervision of a middle-aged teacher and several nurse's aides. The educator looked at them in amazement. "But—she was right here doing the assessment tests. I was about to check on her—."

The test papers were there on a desk which was off to the side a little, but the chair was empty.

"She really was right there." One of the nurse's aides spoke up. "It's not like you can mistake her for anyone else, with all that hair. She couldn't have been gone more than thirty seconds."

Jude, of course, knew what had happened. Instead of astral wandering, Samara had left an illusion of herself in the seat, and gone off in the flesh. "Well, she isn't hurt and she won't do it again now that she knows it's wrong, because if she does she won't get to go outside with everybody else."

"We get to go outside?" Samara asked.

"Of course. There's a nice play area out back." Tanya told her, gathering up the tests and looking them over. Teaching in a children's psychiatric ward offered a range of challenges faced by few others in the profession. Her students had ten times the behavioral issues and a unique range of needs. "No wonder you were bored. These are way too easy for you. If I'd known you were reading this well I would have given you the next level up. The next time you get bored, you tell me, okay?"

"I'm not supposed to bother people." Samara mumbled, reverting to timidity. "I get in trouble if I do. So long as I'm not in the way and I'm quiet nobody cares what I do. Unless I get my clothes dirty."

"That's not the way it is here." Jude knelt down. "These people are like me. I trained here for a semester when I was in medical school, that's how I know. They care what you do. They are here to pay attention to you, and nobody here will get mad and shout at you or hit you. They're not allowed to, and _they_ will get in serious trouble if they break those rules. Let's go to your room. I have lots to tell you, and plenty to show you too."

Fin passed Jude the shopping bags on their way out. Once they had disappeared around the corner, Munch turned back to the nurse and the teacher. "Let's step out into the hall for this. You're going to have to do better with your security." he warned them.

"This is the first time we have ever had a child get out of a secured ward since we opened back in 1983." the nurse told him, agitated. "I can't explain it and I know I can't excuse it. Thanks to Dr. Weiss's instructions, we've known how to encourage her to cooperate, and we are professionals, but Samara's been so quiet."

Tanya, the educator, agreed. "Withdrawn children are nothing new to us, but they're usually like a toothache you've been medicated for—even if they're quiet, you never forget they're there. With Samara—I don't know how I could forget she was in the room, but—."

"If Samara's mother had been lurking outside the ward, it's possible nobody would ever have seen her alive again." Munch informed them. "Not to mention any of the other possible dangers to her. Look, let's drop this for the time being. Now you know what she can do if no one's paying attention, so it won't happen again. Right?"

They agreed. "Okay. Has her case worker arrived yet?"

"She called and left a message saying she'd be late." the nurse said.

"Big surprise there." Munch commented.

Down the hall, Jude began, "Samara—."

"I missed you." the girl replied. "And it turned out it was all right there are other kids here, because it's really easy making them not notice me." A vocalization, half howl, half wail, drifted in from the hall. "That's Stephanie. She came in really late last night. She's in the time-out room not because she was bad but because she might hurt herself. All her memory's gone right now because something awful happened to her and she wants to forget it, but she forgot everything else too. So she can't walk or talk and everything scares her."

"The staff didn't tell you all this, did they?" Jude already knew the answer.

"No. I just know it. I know about almost all of the kids here."

"Does it bother you?" At least some of what was wrong with Samara came from being telepathic. Whatever effect telepathy had on a developing psyche, Jude doubted it could be good. The sex and violence on television were as nothing to the sex and violence in people's heads. Unfortunately there were no materials available on the subject— or no reliable ones, at any rate.

"No. Not like sometimes at Eola. I mean I understand the kids. They're a lot simpler than grownups."

"That makes sense." Jude nodded. "But that isn't what I need to talk to you about right now. As wrong as it was to sneak out of the ward on your own, talking freely about what you can do is worse. People aren't going to understand. _Please_, Samara. Please don't do it anymore."

"I thought you said I could trust the police and the people here."

"You can. But you have to know someone really, really well before you can share such an important part of yourself with them. Now, I have good news for you." Jude changed the subject before Samara could pursue it further.

"I'm now officially your therapist. I'm the person who has to be consulted about your treatment, and the first thing I will say is no more electroshock ever and no more medicines that make you sick. That's not to say no more medicines ever, because everybody needs medicine sometime. The second thing I will say is more art, fresh air and playing outside. But before all of that—." She pulled one of the shopping bags forward and opened it. "Your old clothes are looking kind of short and shabby, so I got you some new ones."

"But they aren't white." Samara observed with puzzlement. "My mommy says the only proper color for a young lady is white."

"In this case, your mother is wrong. Unless you have a special job like I do, in health care or other places where you need to be sure your clothes are clean for hygiene, white is saved for the most special of occasions. That's how you can tell how special they are. Anyhow, pink is the color most people associate with little girls."

"And they're all pants!" This was clearly a mild scandal.

"Not all of them. Some of them are tops." Jude teased her. "Pants are practical. I wear pants. So do most of the nurses here. So does Olivia—Detective Benson. Wearing pants says that you are active and fun and up for anything. Even your mother wears pants when she rides, doesn't she?"

"They're jodhpurs. Those are different."

"Nope. No different. People wear clothing appropriate to what they're doing. But now let's look at the rest…"

Samara got more and more into the occasion as the bags grew emptier. Soon she consented to try on the pink capris and the daisy print top. Rather than the ordinary white and yellow variety, these were the colors of lemonades and sherbets, pink, peach, yellow, lime, and orange. Jude selected a barrette with a pink butterfly on it, and clipped Samara's hair up on one side—not too drastic a change to begin with.

They came out of the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.

"I look like a regular girl!" Samara said, astonished by her own reflection.

"Yes, you do." Jude said. The brighter clothing lent color to Samara's face. "How about some lip balm? It's strawberry flavored. No, you have to stretch your mouth out or it'll glob. Corners up on your lips…" She knelt and applied the transparent gloss.

"There. No, don't move your face yet. There's one accessory that's always right no matter what you wear. It never goes out of style, and it'll last you your whole life. It will give you confidence and help you make friends whenever you wear it. It'll be the most becoming thing you'll ever own. It'll make you feel prettier and happier when you put it on. You've never had one before, but you have it on now— or at least, you have a practice one on. Look at yourself."

Samara's brow creased as she looked in the mirror and then up at Jude, uncomprehending.

Jude told her. "It's a smile."


	22. The Argument

Back at the stationhouse, there was an argument going on. "What the hell?" exploded Stabler. He stabbed a finger at the dark television screen. "What, are we supposed to think that was real, that Samara somehow manipulated the video? Come on! Anybody with a computer could mock that up."

"Actually, I don't think they could." Olivia disagreed. "It looked real. Even the best CGI doesn't look that real—and homemade CGI certainly wouldn't. Even in the movies, filmmakers save it for fantasy and science fiction because people are already suspending their disbelief. That way when something doesn't move right or look the way it should, it doesn't take you out of the story."

"Then maybe it wasn't CGI. Maybe it was done using regular special effects. The point is—." Elliot began, and Olivia remembered why her heart wasn't completely broken because they couldn't be together. Elliot could be remarkably pig-headed.

"I don't believe that's possible." Huang deflected the speculation. "Not without Lucasfilm's budget. To film that, you'd need a professional film crew with several cameras set up at different angles. The freeway would have to be closed, because of the risks involved and every car you see on that video would have a professional stunt driver behind the wheel.

"Think of all the angles, the various types of shots, the way the camera swoops down and in, the limited hours they would realistically be able to film each day, because the light would change, factor in the number of takes—those few minutes of video would probably cost more than seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to produce. Possibly more. And that's before the special effects."

"All right, I see what you're saying, but then how did it get there, if it isn't CGI and it wasn't filmed. Are you saying Samara Morgan, our seven year old victim, put it there?" Elliot confronted the profiler.

"No. I don't know how it got there or who put it there." Huang admitted.

"Then will you at least admit that it proves my theory that Dr. Weiss is in this up to her neck? She brought the tape here. She said it was for real."

"No." That was from Olivia. "I don't see that it proves anything, because she never said it was real. All she said was that it explained why the staff was afraid of Samara and how the hysteria got started. If it does nothing else, it explains that. I'm sure people were scared witless once the word got around!"

"The person this really implicated is Dr. Scott." Cregan weighed in for the first time. "He's the driver of that car. If we assume that Samara isn't somehow responsible, this film couldn't have been made without his cooperation. He's the one you should be looking at—but you're not going to, Elliot."

"Why not?" the detective challenged him. "Scott's still here. He's not being arraigned for at least another couple of hours. Why can't we bring him up and ask him a few questions?"

"One, because he lawyered up and won't talk unless we make a deal—which we aren't. And two, because this isn't your case. You're not the primary. You're not even the secondary. This one is Munch's. You're here to provide back-up for him, as he's done for you. Now I _know_ he's never run rough-shod over you and fouled up any of your cases no matter what his suspicions, and you are going to show him the same courtesy. Is that clear?"

Elliot balked. "Captain—."

"You consult Munch before you take any step. You get his okay. If you can't make a case for your meddling with him, you drop it. Is there any part of this which you don't understand, Detective?"

"No. Sir." Elliot added.

"Good. What I will authorize, however, is for that tape to be sent down to the lab. Maybe the techs can shed some light on it for us. Because I find it just as suspicious as you do."

A/N: Okay, it's a mini chapter. This wasn't a good week for writing, but I wanted to get something up. More next time!


	23. The Hundred Ghosts

'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,'—Sherlock Holmes, (written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)

Huang returned to his office in a state of profound mental unease. He sank into his chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes to think.

No matter how he tried, he could not make the facts, as he knew them, lead to a rational conclusion. Leaving aside how it had been produced, there were only three ways videotape SM-0015 could have come into existence as it was:

1. Someone had taken the original tape, which had no prophetic death sequence, and spliced it together afterward, meaning it was faked after the fact. Had the sequence **_not_** been there when Scott viewed the tape immediately after Samara had told him she 'already did' it? Perhaps, but that did not explain the doctor's reaction. Before interview SM-0015, Scott had been treating Samara as he would any other patient. After it, he began prescribing overdoses, and his patient notes turned cryptic to the point of being incomprehensible. Samara would have been primed beforehand to say the right things, as well.

2. Someone had faked it before the fact by pre-recording the sequence on the tape, so it was there when Scott stopped it and replayed the video. That could only be possible if Scott were in on it, because of the precise timing involved. If both Scott and Samara were working from a script, if they had rehearsed the interview over and over again with a stopwatch at hand, only then could they have worked around the pre-embedded sequence. Again, that did not explain either Scott or Samara's behavior. Those two had never been on good enough terms to stage such a scene or to keep it a secret afterward.

3. Samara really had affected the videotape with some kind of mental power.

Huang did not want to accept the third possibility, although it was the only one which adequately explained everything.

Yet…

Yet Olivia was right; CGI couldn't fool the eye. There was always something subtly wrong about such images. Even if one couldn't articulate exactly what was amiss, there was still no way such an extended, leisurely and realistic sequence could get by four trained detectives without setting off one warning bell. And even if a genius programmer had broken that barrier, there was still the problem of money. Sophisticated CGI was expensive.

Huang knew he was correct about the difficulty of filming such a sequence in real time and space. It would be too expensive, and it would be impossible to keep a secret—not when so many people would have had to be a party to it. Not just the cast and the crew, but the board from whom the producers would have had to get permission to close down a stretch of interstate, the people whose commutes would have been interrupted, the caterers who provided coffee and sandwiches… No.

Something else was bothering him, and had been ever since he first set eyes on Samara. Opening his own eyes, he spun in his chair until he faced his bookshelves, scanning the volumes for one particular portfolio. Spotting it high up in the right hand corner, he took it down and untied the silk brocade ribbon which bound the covers together around it. It was a relic of his childhood, originally the property of his Japanese great-grandmother, and for Huang it was literally the stuff of nightmares. He was nine when he first leafed through the crackling pages, and what he saw was enough to wake him, screaming and sweating, for weeks.

_100 Ghost Stories, by Yamamura Katsuhisa_, he read, as he had done so many times.

The art histories called Yamamura 'an obscure18th century printmaker who specialized in the gory and macabre. Most of his works were destroyed by edict of the Emperor.' Not nearly as prolific as Hokusai or Hiroshige, he too had produced ukioy-e, woodblock prints of the 'floating world', the seamier side of Japanese life of the day: images of actors, sumo wrestlers, prostitutes—and illustrations of stories. Cheap and colorful, the prints were never intended to last, much like comic books and advertising posters before collectors realized their value. The collection Huang now owned was invaluable. It really belonged in a museum, but he couldn't bring himself to part with it, not yet.

He regarded the first print. The first image was innocuous enough: a group of samurai and geisha were telling ghost stories on a veranda late one night. The flowers twining up the pergola said it was summer, and a dwindling moon shone on the river below. An apprentice geisha was caught in the act of blowing out a candle, her cheeks puffed out slightly with her breath.

Fall and winter might be the traditional time of year for ghost stories in the western world, but in Japan, ghost stories were told in high summer, when the days were too hot for anyone to move and the nights too humid and oppressive to sleep. Then the candles would be brought out to provide the right atmosphere. One hundred candles, for a hundred ghost stories. Everyone would take a turn and tell a story, and with each completed story, a candle would be blown out. If enough people held out, and all one hundred stories were told, (which never happened, because the nights weren't_ that_ long) then with the extinguishing of the last candle, a specter would appear.

Except in this print, the specters were already there. Although it looked like a happy gathering of friends, with plenty of nice things to eat and drink, when one looked more closely, one could see faces hidden in the details, in the flower designs painted on the screens, the wood grain of the ceiling, the kimono patterns, the ripples on the river. Hideous faces, full of menace, full of malice, and the elegantly dressed courtesan who was about to join the party had no feet. She floated above the tatami mat flooring, a phantom herself.

Huang turned the page. The next print illustrated a scene from the tale of General Tokugawa, who betrayed his men and his shogun for gold, leading his army into a valley where they were slaughtered. Here the General was experiencing a flashback in front of the entire Imperial Court, seeing his slaughtered troops pressing in from every side. There weren't many male ghosts in Japanese folklore; women and children outnumbered them, because while adult men held all the power in the material world, in the afterlife, the position was reversed.

Next was the Tale of Lady Oiwa, whose husband tired of her. First he tried to sell her to another man, and when she would not submit to such treatment, he poisoned her. The poison did not kill her, but it destroyed her beauty, leaving her unspeakably disfigured. Lacking any sense of remorse over her suffering, he then stabbed her and threw her body in the river, but she returned to haunt him. He began to see her face everywhere; this print showed him at such a moment: the look on his face as he unveiled his new wife's face, and saw Oiwa's ruined features instead. He remarried a richer, younger woman with better family connections, but on the wedding night, Oiwa struck. Driven mad, he stabbed his new bride, and ran wild through his in-laws' house, killing everyone who crossed his path. Finally he took the blade to his own abdomen.

Japanese ghosts weren't necessarily direct about their vengeance. Rather than just killing the person who had wronged them, they began killing off their tormentor's family and friends, slowly and in a way which left no doubt who was responsible or why.

Also, they almost invariably wore white and had long, disheveled black hair for the same reason that vampires in the western world wore black and slept in coffins: because traditionally in Europe corpses were shrouded in black and buried in coffins, while corpses prepared for burial in Japan were dressed in white kimonos with their hair undone.

There weren't just ghosts in this portfolio; next were an array of monsters. The rokurokubi, women with long, flexible necks like snakes. The adachigahara, a ghoul whose boundless appetite was pleased most by freshly killed human infants. In fact, this print showed an adachigahara sharpening a knife on a block while contemplating with lustful hunger an extremely pregnant woman, hanging upside down from a hook like a deer about to be slaughtered.

Then the Mother of Spiders, who haunted roadways at night. Her face was lovely, but her voluminous kimonos concealed the bulbous abdomen and legs of a spider. She could outrun all but the fastest horses—and if she caught a horse and rider, she webbed them up together and gave them to her children for supper.

Here was another phantom lady, the Yuki-onna, or snow maiden, whose kiss froze men, blood, bone, and marrow. Then the Tale of The Weeping Rock, haunted by a lady murdered by bandits during a thunderstorm.

Ghosts were usually associated with some form of water—rivers, lakes, rain, snow—because the words for 'wet' and 'emotional' sounded the same in Japanese, just as 'loaf' in English meant both 'bread' and 'not doing anything'.

If the proper burial rites weren't performed for a person who died 'wet'--with excessively strong emotion in their hearts, whether it was passionate love or equally passionate anger and hatred, then they could become onryo, ghosts with needs that trancended death--only to visit those unmet needs upon the living. If the onryo was powerful enough in life, then in death they became avatars of disease or disaster, causing epidemics or calamities on a widespread scale and killing hundreds, even thousands.

Now he had reached the print he was looking for: The Story of Okiku.

Okiku, so the story went, was a young maidservant in the home of a samurai named Aoyama. Depending on which version one read, she either broke a valuable plate, one of a set of ten, or he broke it and blamed it on her because she refused to become his mistress. Both versions ended the same way: Aoyama killed her and threw her body down an old well. Her ghost returned every night to obsessively count the plates out loud, one through nine. When she could not find a tenth plate, she invariably began screaming so horribly she drove Aoyama mad.

Yamamura was not the first or the last ukiyo-e artist to portray Okiku rising from her well. Yoshitoshi made her a miserable, vaporous little phantom who wept into her sleeves. Hokusai rendered her as a kind of ectoplasmic worm, her segmented body made up of a stack of plates, and her head atop it like the Caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland—one could see her face as a face, or as the rudimentary legs of the worm which happened to look like a girl's brow, nose, mouth and chin.

Yamamura, though…

Yamamura had chosen to make her more solid and more corpse-like. In his print, Okiku bodily hauled herself up out of the well by main force, her clinging white kimono and long black hair soaked with water and besmirched by slime, mud, and mildew. Her eyes had turned milky blue with death, and her face—her face—.

It was only a coincidence. It meant nothing. But Okiku had Samara's face.

Or was it the other way around?

He shut the portfolio and tied the ribbon as though he could bind up his unease along with the prints. He wasn't thinking like a psychiatrist and FBI agent, which also bothered him. He was thinking like the nine-year-old boy he had been when he first saw those images.

Putting the _100 Ghosts_ back on the shelf, he wrenched his thoughts back to the here-and-now. There were any number of people out there who claimed to be psychic, or thought they were, but as yet no one had been able to demonstrate any genuine paranormal ability under laboratory conditions, which for him would be the only acceptable proof.

He could test Samara. Something simple, yet indisputable, even if only for his own benefit. If he made a list of images, basic shapes, letters, numbers, and then asked her to 'see' them on a roll of film, a roll that was still sealed in the factory packaging…

If he then developed it…

* * *

A/N: That last chapter wasn't me at my best. Hope this one is better. A virtual lolkitty for the first person who spots the Ringu in-joke!


	24. The Secret Promise

Jude sat on the swing next to Samara's and watched the child drag her feet through the wood chips as she came to a stop. "Finished already?" she asked her.

"We can't talk while I'm moving." Samara pointed out. "This isn't like the island. I mean the city's all around, and it's so big. You can't ever forget it's there. On the island there are trees like there are buildings here, and it's like there isn't anybody else in the world."

"Are you homesick?"

"I don't know. I don't wish I was there, but I don't know where I wish I was."

"Here is okay. There's a nice sunset. We have the playground to ourselves. And I'm with a friend. I think this is a pretty good moment, as moments go. There's nowhere else I'd rather be." Jude said.

Samara's mouth twitched. She still hadn't gotten the hang of smiling. "Sometimes I still hate you, Doctor Jude."

"That's okay. You can hate me if you need to. Do you know why?"

"You make me want stuff I can't have. It hurts—it makes my heart hurt thinking about it, what it would be like if my mommy were, were somebody like you and my daddy was somebody different too. I mean Detective Munch's been nicer to me today than my daddy's ever been my whole life, even if it's only because he doesn't know…that I'm not like other kids, and, and—why do you like me even though you know about me?" Samara looked at her through eyelashes that were beading up with tears.

Jude drew in a breath. "It's complicated."

Samara waited.

"Partly it's because I know being your friend is absolutely the right thing to do. Partly it's because I know what it's like to have the people you love be afraid of you and wish you would go away."

"How do you know that?" Skepticism coated the girl's voice.

"This is one of those things that you have to know somebody really, really well before you tell them. It's something very big and very important about me that I have to ask you never to tell anybody else."

"Then I won't." Samara stated.

"I have a virus that causes a disease that kills people. It's called HIV, and the disease it causes is AIDS."

"I've heard of that!" Samara looked at Jude with sharp concern. "My daddy says only bad people get that, because God's punishing them for doing wrong things, so people who get it get what they deserve."

"Nobody deserves to get HIV." Jude said automatically. "Knowing how you watch TV, I'll bet you've heard Oprah talk about it too. What does she say about it?"

"That's it's a tragedy and everybody has to do what they can to help find a cure."

"And who do you think is a better person, Oprah or your daddy?"

"Um—Oprah. I think. How did you get it?"

Jude usually steeled herself when it came to tell the story, because many adults didn't believe the truth. There was always something in their eyes that said: _Yeah, right. Now tell me about the skanky stuff, the unprotected sex and the intravenous drug use_.

"I went to Africa to tell people how not to catch it, because a lot of people over there are already infected with it. I knew all the things I shouldn't do, so I didn't do any of them—and never you mind what those things are," she hastily added, as Samara drew breath to ask, "but there are sometimes accidents. That was how I caught it, in an accident. The virus is in people's blood, and it can jump from one person to another when their blood mixes together." She wasn't about to explain about other bodily fluids, but she would tell Samara the truth. "You can't get it by just hugging someone, or drinking from the same glass or using the same bathroom. It isn't like a cold. It's difficult to catch.

"Anyhow, I was traveling in a country called Botswana. I'll show you on a map where it is when we go back in. I was supposed to be going to a town called Tsebong. Only there weren't any roads and there weren't even any buses, so I had to ride with a bunch of other people in the back of an open truck, and it took hours and hours. I didn't know it, but a couple of people on the truck had HIV, which wouldn't have mattered except that the truck hit a big rock in the sand and fell over on its side."

Jude closed her eyes, remembering how she was jolted out of a sound sleep into screaming and pain. "There was a lot of broken glass and twisted metal. Everybody was hurt at least a little, some a lot—and a few people were dead. Because I had medical training, I tried to help bandage people's wounds. I didn't realize until later how my own hands were cut up. Even though there are medicines that might have prevented me from catching HIV, there weren't any there where I was."

"Oh. I'm sorry you caught the virus. Are you dying now?"

"No. I take medicines that kill the virus very slowly—so slowly that I'll probably die of old age before all the virus is gone. Sometimes they make me a little bit sick, kind of like the medicines Dr. Scott prescribed for you, but as long as I keep taking them and they keep working, I won't get sick and die from the disease."

"Oh," Samara said again. "But what happened with your family? Did they think it was your fault you caught the virus because you were being bad like my daddy says?"

"Not exactly. Nobody said so. Everybody said how sorry they were," _Except for my mom, who said 'I told you this would happen' over and over_, "but it was how they acted. They were afraid they would catch it off me, even though they couldn't. Nobody said that, but my sister wouldn't let me hold her new baby, and I couldn't go over to my dad's house anymore. My stepmother kept making excuses why they were too busy. When I'd go into a room sometimes everybody would stop talking and stare at me, and I know they were talking about me when I wasn't there. Then at Christmas my mother practically followed me around the house disinfecting everything I touched, and when I helped make cookies she threw out the whole batch. I know because I found them in the garbage afterward."

She needed a tissue. Talking about how her life had disintegrated always did that to her. Searching in her purse, she found the handkerchief Munch had given her the night before. That made her think of him and how kind he was, which made her cry harder because she loved him even more. It meant very little if a man was kind to a woman he wanted to sleep with, because men would do or say almost anything to get laid, but when he was kind to someone else who truly needed it—it spoke volumes about who he really was.

Suddenly Samara was there next to her, tentatively patting her shoulder. "It's okay, Dr. Jude. I still like you. I'm not afraid of you. Don't cry. _Please_ don't cry." Hardly anything was scarier to a child than seeing a strong adult break down.

"I'm all right." She sniffed and dried her eyes. "Anyway, I haven't seen my family since then. I couldn't stand them being afraid of me or how they looked at me. I went away so they could feel safe. That's how I know what it's like for you. But there are other reasons I like you, too." Jude refocused on Samara, and hugged her around the waist.

"When you're a kid—well, you're still a kid in years, but you'll understand what I mean—you start off with people telling you there's a Santa Claus and a tooth fairy and you can grow up to be anything if you work hard and someday you'll find true love and get married and live happily ever after and the world is a magical, wonderful place." She let the sentence run on in child-fashion.

"Then you find out none of those things are true. Your grandparents are Santa Claus, your dad is the tooth fairy, there is no way you'll ever be a movie star and there isn't any magic in the world. It's really an ordinary place, grey and dirty, full of viruses and child abusers and…Well, everybody discovers that, and the sadness you get from it is called Adulthood. But then I met you, and you can do extraordinary things, things nobody else I've ever met can do. Even if they're scary and wrong sometimes, the fact that _they're_ real and _you're_ real puts color back in the world, and that makes me very happy. _You_ make me very happy, Samara. I'm glad I know you, and that I'm your friend."

Now Samara was crying full out and clinging to Jude's neck. "I _love_ you, Dr. Jude. I wish you were dying, too. I wish you could die when I die and we could be together even if it is down in the well. It wouldn't be so bad dying and getting trapped there if you were with me. It wouldn't be so lonely. I wouldn't mind it so much if you could be my mommy after I die and—."

Jude hugged Samara, still careful of her ribs. "Samara, I promise you I will do everything I can to keep that from happening. If somehow you wind up in the well despite that—I _know_ you can contact me, I _know_ you can. The moment your mommy does—what you say she's going to, tell me. You say it'll take you a week to die. In that week, I'll look for you. I'll get Detective Munch and Olivia and Dr. Huang and all the police in New York to look for you too. And if somehow we can't find you—then I _promise_ you I will die too. I promise."


	25. The Question

A/N: So what happened to this story, you may be asking? Well, the last time I updated, I also posted the first chapter of a new story under Batman Begins, called Can't Get You Out Of My Head, just as an experiment. I was quite surprised, because in just twenty-four hours I got fifteen reviews. So I wrote another chapter and another. The average number of reviews per chapter of Can't is twelve. The average per chapter of Power: Samara is two and a half.

But I love this story and I have a few very loyal people who are enjoying it too, so I couldn't leave things hanging where they were. On with the story!

* * *

To give Elliot his due, he didn't pounce on Munch the moment the older detective came in the door, and even waited until he had taken off his coat. But once Cragen paused by Munch's desk to ask, "How did the Scott indictment go?", he felt he could join in the conversation under the guise of simply being interested.

"Smooth as silk, for once." The dour, cynical Munch actually smiled. "They only refused one charge, that of depraved indifference. Their logic was that if he was actively trying to kill her, then he wasn't exactly _indifferent_. I had to admit I could see their point."

"Good." Cragen nodded. "And Family Court's happening tomorrow afternoon, right?"

"Yes. Belleview promises they'll have a written assessment of Anna Morgan in time. I don't know about Mr. Morgan, but _she's_ going to be there; her lawyer is seeing to that. I'm afraid Anna will be disappointed, because Samara's case worker won't be bringing her along. Children's' Hospital won't give the green light."

"I can't disagree with that, whatever state of health a kid's in." Stabler put his two cents worth in. "It doesn't matter how toxic the home is, it's still home and it's familiar. When they're as young as she is, of course they want to go back."

"Not this one." Munch shook his head.

"No?" Elliot shrugged, acting casual. "Well, I haven't met her. I'll take your word for it. By the way, has—."

"Yes." Munch beat him to it. "The lab has called and they want to talk to us about the results on the tape. Can I make it clear to you how little I appreciate your breathing down my neck on this?"

"You're not fooling anybody, Elliot." Cragen chided him affably.

"I'm sorry—." The younger man began, but Munch was in a waspish mood.

"It isn't just that. It's the horning in."

Cragen looked sharply at Stabler. "Elliot, I told you—."

"I didn't!" Elliot held up both hands in a defensive gesture. "I haven't touched the Morgan case."

"Not on my_ case_, on my _turf_ as this unit's conspiracy theorist." Munch explained. "There's a strict quota on these things. One per unit is the limit. Back in Baltimore, when I started out in Homicide, our conspiracy wonk was a guy named Crosetti. He was a Lincoln assassination theorist, not my field, but valid, and I respected that—well, I ragged him about it now and then, everybody did, just as you do me, but I never horned in. That's the important thing. When he died, I stepped up to the plate and took on the mantle. Not before."

"You're mixing your metaphors there, John. You have a sports metaphor and a religious metaphor. Watch it; sometimes they react badly." Cragen went along with him.

"Thanks, Captain. As the resident conspiracy wonk, I upheld the torch of eccentricity and the tireless search for truth in the face of scorn and derision with all my might. In fact, I did so well that I brought my theories along with me to New York. Here I am, playing in the big leagues at last. And you will wrench that away from me only when I leave here permanently. I'm not giving it up. Not with the most interesting election of living memory shaping up. Once I die or retire—then you can have it. Not before."

"Got that, Stabler?" Cragen asked, totally deadpan. "You are a mere apprentice, Grasshopper. Munch is the master. Learn from him. Strive to be worthy. Just don't tread on his toes."

Elliot Stabler did have a sense of humor, even if it was sometimes hard to locate, so he hung his head and scuffed the floor with his toe in mock shame. "I—I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"Good man." Cragen slapped him on the shoulder. "Now Munch, about that video."

"Yes. The techs had a lot of questions about it, where it came from, how it was filmed. I told them we didn't know. They want to talk to us about it as soon as possible."

They collected Benson and Huang along the way, and so all five of them were soon crowded around the video specialist's work area.

"This is the strangest video tape I've ever come across—and by that I don't mean the content." stated the specialist.

"How so?" Cragen asked.

"Have all of you had the video tracking lecture yet?" Some of the SVU nodded while others shook their heads.

"Okay, then. Those who have will have to bear with me. All video recording devices leave tracking lines. These lines control and synchronize video tape recordings for playback or editing. There _is no_ getting away from them. It's built into the medium.

"We can sometimes identify the exact camera or duplication machine from the tracks alone. Now on conventional playback devices such as you have at home or in the office, you'll never see them, because they occur above and/or below the picture you see on screen. But on our equipment here—let me get this going—you can see them clearly."

He started the video, and they watched as the interview began. The tech let it play until it reached:

_"Well, there's no way you could have pulled them out of thin air, so someone must have made them beforehand and switched the plates. Who was it? Your mother? Yes, that's it. To lend credence to her story."_

_"Nobody helped me. Stop yelling at me!"_

_"Then prove it! Do it again. You can't, can you?"_

"See? Everything's as it should be, until now." The technician paused the tape for a moment. "Watch this."

Strobe flash, unbearably bright light. The screen showed a well in a clearing, all in black and white. A buzz heightened to a whine, then fractured into a rattle.

"There aren't any tracking lines." Benson observed.

"Exactly. And that isn't possible. It's like—it's like you stopped metabolizing oxygen and switched to nitrogen. It just can't be done." the tech explained.

"So how is it working?" Cregan asked.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Could somebody have invented a—a different way of controlling and synchronizing video recordings?" Benson contributed.

"No." The tech shook his head. "This_ is_ the invention that controls and synchronizes video recordings. If it doesn't use this, it wouldn't be a video tape."

"Maybe that part of the video was transferred from a DVD?" Elliot tried.

"No. I was up half the night trying to figure out how it worked. I have advanced degrees in this field, but I still don't understand." The tech would not be moved.

Six people stared at the screen as the scene returned to the interview room and the lines reappeared.

Silence.

"Nobody wants to say it," Benson broke the silence, "because we all know how it's going to sound. Could—_could _Samara have put those images, those sounds on that tape? I mean, if we're going to get to the bottom of this, we should rule out the possibility."

"What?" Stabler stared at her. "You're not saying you think this is for real?"

"No." She looked at him steadily. "I'm saying we won't get anywhere until we know for sure it isn't."

"How do we do that?" Munch asked. "Proving a negative is harder than herding cats."

Huang spoke up. "I have an idea…"


End file.
